a 1 1 


Author 




16 — 17372-2 GPO 



f / 





“Ncr pent-up Utica contracts one powers; .for tljc triple boundless continent is ours 


EXTRA SERIES- 


OFFICE 30 ann-stsee: 


NUMBER 50- 


Vol. II.. ..No. 26. 


NEW-YORK, FEBRUARY, IS43. 


P2ICE 12 i Cents/ 

— e* 


FRANCIS OF Y ALOIS, 


O R. 


TIIE CUllSE OF ST. YAJJLl A|ll. 

A TALE OF THE MIDDLE AGES.* 


BY EDMUND FLAGG, 


’ j fical Cabala of the Oriental Illuminati — but with a weapon less terri- 
I lie, and less bloody, yet more efficient ant! resistless — the sword of 
the spirit — the GosptJ ■ f Truth. It came to deliver a world from the 
iniqui>»vi=> despotism of Church and State — to rebuild the shattered 
temple of Science, and to reanimate every department of Literature 
and the Arts. It came to liberate the nations of northern Europe 
forever from their worse than eastern bondage to the Papal See, and 
to loosen the moral manacles of the south ; and it came to induce a 
revolution in the sentiments of mankind, the most wonderful that 
has ever taken place since the promulgation of Christianity. To this 
grand moral revolution, which, three centuries ago, had its origin ire 
Saxony, from the most inconsiderable circumstances, may, indeed, 
be justly attributed all of those great civil, as well as religious, refor- 
mations which, from that epoch, crowd the page of history', down, 
into our own times. It was but a prologue to that great drama which 
has since claimed the attention, and enlisted the powers, of msderit 
I Christendom. Its influences are experienced in every nation, and by 
j every people; and while the present age acknowledges, ages yet to 
; come will perceive and appreciate, th« blessings it has bestowed. 

Tits E ra of the reign of Franc L of Valois, the first of his name and ! ! Never , have resu ! ls S T ° va3t a , nd 30 cxtensive 1 rcm J 1 te i d from a £0 ” rc ’ 
his family on the throne of France, and the second in succession ofj ; seemu « 1 ? r S0 tnv i aL lt waBthc 6ing,e P mciple of liberty of thought, 
the collateral branch of Valoie-O.leans, was one of the most remark- i 


A', 1UOR CF ‘ MARION DU 1 .ORHS,’ * T1IE DUCHESS Of FERRARA,’ ‘ MARY 
TUDOR,’ ‘ BEATRICE,’ ‘ THE BRIGAND,’ &C. &C. icC. 


Tale of strange an- ! terrible oocurrene# ! — S pirit of the Wood. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


They unto whom \yl shall appear tedious are in nowise injured by ns, because it 
a la iheirpA n Lends to spare lit at labor which they are not willing to endure.” 

. ' ~ r ~ 'A lfnr»»rp 


Hooker. 


suggested to an ®bscure monk of Wirtemberg, in the loneliness ct 

able periods in the annals of Europe. It was an era remarkable not :lllis cel1 ’ ^ the pages °J bi ? a “ d by , promulgated to Eu- 

more for the splendor and importance of the events which it chroni- ro ? f and the f W ° rld ’ ^ lch Iaid the subs ‘ raU ™ cf aU lhe momentous 
. c .. . . , , . i movements of succeeding centuries: and, if we do not injustice to 

cies, than lor mat throng of illustrious personages by whose birth it . .. ° , , , 

1 his illustrious coadjutors, or ascribe to the efforts of one remarkable 


age, but the civil revolution in England in the next century, and 
with equal justice, that of France, as well as, under happier auspices. 


was honored, and by whose aoh.eveme-nts it was distinguished. If, . ... , . c ,, , • T .u 

, , „rtr . I man, that which was but the spirit of the age, to Martin Luther may 

we search "age of History tnrough, we shall fail to discover one , ’ • , • • c , • 

. j , . , . .... , be attributed, not only the religious re volution in Germany ®f ms own 

period around which clusters such a brilliant galaxy of extraordinary I ’ 1 6 J 

men, whether vve consider civil or political, ecclesiastical or military 

renown, as the early years of the sixteenth century. “ It was the i , , r . 

.. ... , • t . ,,, . . that of these North American States, 

peculiar glory of that period, says an elegant writer, f “ to produce the “ . , . . , r , u r f T ,, „ , 

... : , , , 1 . The grand principle of the reformation of Luther was Freedom .* 

most illustrious monarens who have, at any one time, appeared in . , c ■ . , r 

, , _ • tt ic i , freedom of mind and of conscience — freedom o: the individual and 

Europe. Leo, Charles, Francis, Henry and Sulym&n, were each ofi ; 

„ them possessed of talents which might have rendered any age, wherein 
they happened to flourish, conspicuous. But such a constellation of 
great princes sheds uncommon lastre on the sixteenth century. In 
every contest great power, as well as great abilities, were set in 
opposition ; the'«ff 0 rts of valor and conduct on one side, counterbal- 
anced by an equaWxeition of the same qualities on the other, not 
only occasioned suck'd- variety of events as rendered the history of 
that period interesting, ov served to check the exorbitant progress of 
any of these princes, and tcw even - their obtaining such preeminence 
of power as would have beem^tal to the liberty and the happiness of 

mankiu;. , \ echo, this in religion was the “Declaration of Independence,’’ and. 

It w as *n 0 €*& of the iNaOhIv Oi — the or* . r i r .i l i j v ? r c l i a 

i a t> \ emDur ° Ine 1 ea - an - °* - l -; e for its defence, stood forth the bold band of reformers, resolved to 

ben — it was vhs era of the Reformation • well hnth if hppr •• . . , , • j •* . • ? 

. . , , • , . vn, auaveii t.am it D.cr.am, sustain it or to perish in the attempt. Sustained it was— sustained 

that, with the single exception of the \dvent of the Christian Faith , * , , r r . fuI , , c 

•v. eni: oi i.ie Ynris.ian i ann, tjjg b eea ; and, though full many a mountain-wave of blooc and of 

... , f .. Y VaS tbe mosr reniar ' ;ab ^ L ‘ desolation has rolled over its noble proportions, and, for a time, has 

event in the annals of time, it came, altef^he long midnight of one c 1 * 

thousand years, to publish again the ReljgionV the Cross— not with 
the lance and the battle-axe of the CrusaderNpr with the blood- 

s . e,ud s-ymeter ot t.ie I a.3e Piophet not witliSye wild and horrid e jj t ^ en mi , 7 we sa v. in the language of one whom from mem- 
ntesjofthePnests of northern Euro pe, nor w ith g ^tic and m a- or . The peViod of the Reformation was a second age 

t843 ’ by J - > chestfr ' 111 tLe cf Apostles and Martyrs : another age cf Christian Fathers. The last 
f Robertson, to whom th^ chapter is indebted for many of its historical facts. IT * Ctrunke, 


freedom of the people — freedom from the thraldom of ecclesiastical 
tyranny, and freedom from the despotism of secular domination. 
The platform on which the reformer planted himself was this : 
each man has a right— natural, inalienable, and undoubted — of which 
he can no more divest himself than he can be divested by another — 
each man is bound, by the duty which he owes to his God, to his 
country, to his fellow-man, aa.I to his own conscience — to exercise 
liberty of thought — to use his own unbiassed sense of right and of 
wrong, and to be free, and continue free, from all trammels of con- 
science and the will. 

This, in religion, saysaa eloquent writer, whose sentiments w? but 


seemed almost to have obliterated them in a chaos of ruin, yet, there 
it still stands— fixed, immovable, firm— and there it will stand for- 







THE NEW WORLD 


Francis 7 


of the Romans had perished in the dungeons of Theodoric, but a 
spirit more than Roman animated the bosom of the monk of Saxo- 
ny. Around him circled a host of kindred spirits — not as the satel- 
lites of his glory, or of his power ; but each one in himself a brilliant 
luminary — a star of the first magnitude — beaming with no borrowed 
radiance, blazing forth in beauty and in splendor from the depths of 
that firmament— an inferior, yet a constituent orb, in the constellation 
of the Reformers.” Well, too, may the age of the Reformation be 
styled the era of miracles, when we consider it, as it was, an age 
fruitful in all that is great and good— all that is divine and noble; 
in a fortitude which quailed not at the thunders of the Vafican, and 
in that proud spirit which could smile alike at the menace of the 
Monarch, and the terrible malediction of the Pontiff. 

The monument of the Reformers is a noble one. It will exist so 
long as the mind of man is free. It is not of marble nor of brass; 
for the rolling years would pass over it, and it would crumble and 
decay. Like the mausoleum and the column of another era, it 
would moulder. Time’s iron finger would be busy on its surface and 
at its base; and soon, in the stillness of ages, it would fall, and not 
a vestige remain to mark to coming generations the spot where it 
had stood. But, it is a monument more durable in its structure, and 
more noble in its proportions — a monument erected in the reverence 
©f mankind. Around its summit lingers a halo of imperishable 
glory ; and at its base is the gratitude of civilized man ! 

Bat the sixteenth century gave birth to another Reformer besides 
Xuther — a man not inferior to the Angustinian friar in all that con- 
stitutes the founder of a faith, and who, with Luther, has ever since 
divided the world of Christendom. It was the era of Ignatio Loyola, 
and of the instituting of that ecclesiastical order, which, under the 
name of Jesuitism, for nearly three hundred years, continued its rule 
ever kingdoms and dynasties, with an authority despotic and terrible, 
as it was dark and mysterious. Nor is the iron arm of that tremen- 
dous influence yet broken, or its power entirely passed away. 
f§ Jgnatio Loyola was a Biscayan gentleman and a brave soldier. In 
leeisting the triumphant march of the troops of Francis, under the 
gallant Andrew de Foix, de L’Esparre, in the conquest of the king- 
dom of Navarre, he received a dangerous wou»d while defending 
the citadel of Pampeluna. The fortress fell, and, during the linger- 
ing process of a cure, as a prisoner of war, his sole resource to be- 
guile the weary hours, was the perusal of the miraculous Lives of 
the Saints of the Catholic Church. 

“ The effect of this,” says the historian, “ on a mind naturally en- 
thusiastic, but ambitious and daring, was to inspire him with such a 
desire of emulating the glory of these fabulous worthies, as led him 
into the wildest and most extravagant adventures, which terminated 
at last in instituting the order of Jesuits, the most political and best 
regulated of all the monastic orders, and from which mankind has 
derived more advantage, and received greater injury, than from any 
©ther of those religious fraternities.” 

Loyola, ambitious of becoming the founder of an order of Eccle- 
siastics, applied for the sanction of Paul III., who then filled the 
papal throne. The petition was referred to a committee of Cardi 
Hals, who represented the institution as both useless and hazardous; 
but, when Loyola proposed, in addition to the vows of poverty, and 
chastity, and monastic obedience, to impose a fourth vow of unde- 
viating and entire subservience of the order to the Holy See, the pru- 
dent pontiff no longer hesitated to accept the acquisition of a pow 
erful body of men, at a time when every monastery in Europe was 
shaken by the denunciations of the Reformers. 

The order was instituted — Loyola was its first General, and, in less 
than fifty years, it was more relied on by its friends, and more 
dreaded by its foes, than was any other fraternity in the Cat’nolicChurch 

And never, in the annals of our race, has there existed a despo 
tism so terrible as that of the head of this mysterious society over its 
members; or of those members, even in the darkness of their lenely 
cells, over the subjects of the Romish faith throughout all the na- 
tions of the earth. 

At that same era, on the throne of England, sat Henry Tudor, the 
eighth of his name, and not the least noted, by reason of his vices 
and his abilities, among the British monarchs. Uniting in his own 
person the lcng conflicting titles of York and Lancaster — the white 
rose, colorless with the loss of blood, and the red rose, crimson 
with ensanguined floods in which it had been drenched — the most 
opulent prince of the age, by reason of his father’s parsimony and 
management ; he was possessed to the full of all the power he as- 
fumed, and which amply warranted his. self-bestowed title — “The 
Arbiter ef Europe.” 


In this connection, the mind cannot but revert to another remarka' 
ble character of that age and that nation — the proud and the aspiring 
prelate Wolsey — an individual whom, whether we consider for the 
profundity of his judgment, his seemingly intuitive knowledge of 
man in every rank and every nation, his indomitable perseverance, 
or his untiring industry ; his profuse prodigality, or his rapacious 
avarice; his unbounded ambition, or his presumptuous pride; the 
elegance of his conversation, or the polished refinement of his man- 
ners; his wisdom, ,or his learning; his rapid and wonderful rise 
i from the lowest grade in society to a station rarely attained by a sub- 
ject, or his sudden and irretrievable fall — certainly presents one of 
i the most extraordinary names, not merely on the chronicles of the 
sixteenth century, but in the history of the race of mankind. 

And there was at that time another Ecclesiastic, of higher rank, 

I indeed, but possessed of hardly more sway in the affairs of Europe., 
[remarkable alike for the similarity and dissimilarity of his character 
and Lis destiny to that of Cardinal Wolsey. Like Wolsey, he was 
proud ; but he was a descendant of one of the proudest families of 
the age — with all of Wolsey’s learning, and taste, and refinement, 
he lacked much of Wolsey’s wisdom, and judgment, and knowledge 
of man; with all of Wolsey’s perseverance, he- had but little of his 
industry; with all of his profuseness, none of his rapacity. 

Leo the Tenth was the polished and elegant son of the Medici— 
that proud and powerful not more than perfidious and blood-stained 
house, which, while for years it graced the ducal chair of the Flor- 
entine state, by its splendor and magnificence, disgraced the age in 
which it flourished by its foul and unnatural enormities. As the 
merchant- prinoco of Florence, they effected not more by their 
wealth and their liberality— their teaming and their taste, to signal- 
ize their name and their native city, than by their monstrous crimes, 
and their unprincipled ambition, they rendered the one almost 
infamous and the government of the other almost an anarchy. 

The character of Leo partook of all the excellencies and some ef 
the vices of his princely house. Renowned alike for the brilliancy 
of his political abilities, and for the accomplishments ot his scholar- 
ship ; for bis polished manners, and his tnusual love and patronage 
of the arts, he could hardly be expected to remain an uninterested 
and inactive spectator of those portentous events of which his pon- 
tificate was signalized ; and he has rendered his name renowned 
not more by the exercise of his papal power in crushing the heresv 
of Luther, than by his imperial authority mediating .bet\^y^hove 
fiery spirits, Francis of Valois and Charles of Spain. Th^^^fcomT 
the foresight, the prudence of Leo, in the exertion of his temporal 
I power, have not been more admired, than has his unwise and ruin- 
ous policy, in the administration of the affairs of his spiritual realm, 
been condemned. 

To the ill-advised measures of Lea himself may, no doubt, be 
referred, if not the actual occurrence of the defection from the 
Romish church during his reign, at least its rapid precipitation. It 
is a circumstance not unworthy of notice, that the undue indulgence 
of the extraordinary devotion of this pontiff to the Fine Arts, origi- 
nated the first impulse to the Reformation of Luther. 

When Leo the Tenth was elevated to the papal throve, he found 
the revenues of the church well-nigh exhausted by the ambitious 
schemes of his two immediate predecessors. To gratify his passion 
for the arts — to aggrandize his ancient and aspiring family — to 
reward, agreeably to the impulse of his munificent spirit, men of 
genius, of learning, and of taste — to complete that wonder of archi- 
tectural design, the Church of St. Peter — to maintain the offices of 
the papal court in a style of magnificence congenial to his refined 
and elegant habits ; to do all these things, demanded coffers far lees 
exhausted than were those of the Vatican : snd various were the 
devices ef priestly astuteness to supply the deficiency. Among these 
was the talc of indulgences ; and, in an l>uur fatal alike to his own 
peace, and to the welfare of the Romb fl church, was affixed to the 
empowering bull the signature of tb- courtly, but mistaken, pontiff. 

Against this blasphemous assumption of a power which casuistry 
can hardly prove to pertain even to Omnipotence itself, stood forth 
Luther; and the issue thus made between the peasant and the 
prince ; the layman and the paramount, ceased only with the death 
of the latter; although k is more than problematical, that, hao a 
temper so obstinate andso irritable, as was that of the German, been 
subjected from the commencement of that rupture to the mild, the 
yielding, the persuasive ccurtesy of the most polished Italian of the 
age, instead of b«mg roused to fury by the unmannered violence and 
the savage threats of men like Tetzel, and Eccius, arid Cajetan, and 
Prierias, his opposition pvould have stopped short of tko.e daring 


Of Valois. 


THE NEW WORLD. 


3 


denunciations, which he at length sent forth, but of which, at first, j 
he had never dreamed. 

The events of Leo's life were striking, and those of his death: 
were hardly less so. News bving brought him of a senes of rapid 
and brilliant successes of the imperial forces in Italy over the troop* J 
of Francis, he was seized with a fever of joy, which, in a few days, 
in the vigor of an advanced age, and in the height of his renown, 
terminated his earthly existence. 

There was, at that era, in Italy, another individual, who sat upon 
no throne, aad vvas illustrious by no title — on whose brow glittered 
no diadem and no triple-crown, and whose hand wielded neither 
key nor sceptre — who was distinguished by no alventitious aids ol , 
rank or cf family — on whose broad escutcheon were blazoned noj 
armorial bearings nor heraldic insignia to declare the aristocracy ol 
his origin ; uapatronized by the smiles of the great, and unsupported 
by the favors of royalty — aggrandized by no influence of amassed or 
hereditary wealth — sustained by th 'i chicanery of no political cor- 
ruption, and the priestly policy of no ecclesiastical cabal — who, 
yet, by the naked supremacy of moral and intellectual worth com 
manded and exercised a sway, and signalized his name by achieve- 
ments, of which the proudest son of the ducal house of Florence 
might have well been proud, in the zenith of its flower ! 

That man was Andrew Dcria, a native of the Republic of Genoa, 
a skilful seaman, an ardent patriot, and as bold a captain as ever 
unsheathed a blade. 

T» the heroism and the patriotism of thi3 gallant officer as Admi- 
ral of the Gallies, was due the deliverance of Genoa and Naples 
from the domination ©f foreigners, when the sovereigns of France 
and of Spain had made the sunny plains of Italy a battle-field on 
which to settle their aspiring claims to supremacy, though drenched 
with the best blood cf it3 unfortunate people. His, too, was that 
rare and glorious magnanimity, of which all history affords us but a 
few illustrious examples — to decline the proffered sovereignty of a 
land which his wisdom and hi3 valor had made free. A private citi- 
zen, respected, honored, beloved, he lived on to an advanced ag* ; 
aad, when. at length he died, he was distinguished in the monuments 
of his countrymen and on the pages of their annals by that proudest 
of appellations: *The Father of his Country and the Preserver of her 
s 'iber ties ’’ 

i. vxe in the iatt*r years of the life of the venerable Doria, when 
the limited power with which he had been so gladly intrusted, and 
which he had so mildly exercised, seemed about becoming heredi- 
tary, by reason of the ambitious aspirations of his son, that a revolt 
from his rule broke out, originating in a jealeusy of the power and 
distinction of the family of a man, who but twenty years before had 
been a common mariner. 

The leader, the originator, the life and the spirit of this conspi- 
racy, was John Lewis Fiesco, Count of Lavagna, the wealthiest, 
the haughtiest, and the loftiest birth cf all the Genoese nobles. 
History tells us, that “he possessed in an eminent degree, all those 
qualities which win upon the heart, which command respect, or 
secure attachment. He was graceful and majestic in person ; ef a 
generosity that anticipated the wishes of his friends, and exceeded 
the cxpectatioas of strangers ; of an insinuating address, gentle 
manners, and glowing ability.” And, yet, beneath this winning 
exterior, he concealed all those qualities which fit men for the dark-! 
est deeds ; insatiable ambition, indomitable courage, and a vital 
scorn of subordination. 

It was under the influence of these passions, roused to frenzy at 
they were, by envy of the power of the venerable Doge and wrath I 
at the aspirations of his son, that the young Fiesco, having imparted n 
his feelings and his purposes to several of the most ambitious of the 
Genoese nobles, resolved with them to assassinate the Dorias, to 
subvert the government, and to place the Count of Lavagna in the | 
ducal chair of Genoa. 

To consummate a scheme so hazardous and so extensive, and 
which has well been termed “ one of the boldest actions on the page j 
of history,” demanded time and deliberation. The better to conceal 
ilia dark design, Fiesco appeared absorbed in all the amusements 
and dissipations of that dissipated city, while at the same time ke 
contrived and carried on to their execution his terrible plans, with a 
secrecy which defied detection, and an address which disarmed, 
distrust. 

At length arrived the long iookea-fcr day. It was the secer.d day 
in the year 1547. The morning was devoted by Fiesco to his usual 
intercourse with his associates, and never had he appeared more gay | 
and free. The evening was occupisd by a visit to his intended vic- 
tims j and, if they could detect ncthiag of his dark designs in h\s i 


handsome and unembarrassed countenance, he could read nothing ot 
the distrust or presentiment of their impending doom in theirs. 

At night Fiesco was in his palace, aud its illuminated apartment 
were thronged. E .ery one had been suffered, throughout the day 
to enter its ga’es; but no one had been suffered to leave them. Th 
crews cf his galleys, and every vassal he could claim, had been 
! etly introduced within the walls, and all the most noble citizens of 
Genoa had been bidden to a banquet. But no banquet was there — 
no wine-cup was filled — no health was pledged — no entertainment 
was spread. Instead of the glitter cf plate was beheld the flash of 
steel; and the rattle of armor fell startinglyon the ear in place of the 
clash of dishes. Men gazed into each other’s pale countenances 
with astonishment, and curiosity, and apprehension ; for, of all that 
vast and heterogenous throng, but few could ull the object of such 
a strange assemblage, and none could divine its result. 

At length, at the height of a suspense which was rapidly verging 
into terror, Fiesco appeared. Eloquently — earnestly did he explain 
to the amazed listeners the purpose for which they had been bidden, 
and the design which he contemplated. 

When he had finished his impassioned harangue, he was greeted 
with a thunder of applause ; and in all that vast old hall was heard 
not a whisper of dissent or disapprobation. To enter at once on the 
accomplishment of the daring scheme of Fiesco was resolved by 
acclamation. 

But the most trying scene in all this terrible drama now remained 
for the ambitious yet fond-hearted Fiesco. It was, for the first time, 
to communicate his dark purpose to his wife — the beautiful and ac- 
complished daughter of one of the noblest houses in Italy — and to say 
to her farewell ! The tumult of voices and the tramp of armed men 
had reached her in her distant apartment ; and now, terrified aad 
foreboding, she besought him, with tears and entreaties, to pause in 
his purpose. His only reply was, “We meet to-morrow as rulers of 
Genoa, or we meet no more on the earth.” 

One hurried embrace — and Fiesco was gOHe. 

To seize the gates of the city — to gain command of the avenues 
and fortresses — to surprise the harbor and obtain possession of the 
galleys, and to carry the ducal palace by assault, was a work <Jf but 
a few ho»ars to a band of conspirators so numerous, so well-appointed, 
and so determined. 

Success crowned every attempt. The son of Doria fell with an 
hundred wounds; and the venerable Doge, at infinite hazard, found 
safety only in flight. 

And then, at that instant of triumphant hope and gratified ambi- 
tion, the conqueror perished ! Inglorious]}’ and strangely, he passed 
away! In the darkness of the night, stepping from one galley to 
another, he lost his footing, and his heavy armor carried him in a 
moment to the bottom of the sea ! 

At the dawn of the next day’s morning there was order again in 
Genoa. Not a conspirator was to be seen. Here and there, a shat- 
tered gate, or a stain cf blood upon the pave, reminded one of the 
uproar of the preceding night, but all else was as quiet and as peace- 
ful as if all had been only the imagining of a hoiribie dream. 

In reviewing the recital of this celebrated revolt, as recorded by 
Cardinal de Retz at the early age of eighteen, and whieh caused 
Richelieu to predict bis future and dangerous eminence, we find our- 
splves at a loss at which to be the most astonished — the hardihood 
which prompted an attempt so desperate — the consummate address 
with which it was carried into execution, or its tragical issue at its 
moment ef victory, in the untimely and singular fate of its projector. 
The tale constitutes one of the wildest romances in the annals of the 
middle ages, and is well adapted to the drama by which it has been 
so ably appropriated. 

But the illustrious men of the sixteenth century were not restricted 
to the western side of thr.t line which at that period divided the 
Christian from the Parquim. Almost at the same moment that 
Charles of Spain ascended the imperial chair of Maximilian, Soly- 
imn, surnamed the Magnificent— the most able, enterprising, and 
accomplished of all the lords of Asia, succeeded to the Ottoman, 
throne. Among the nations of Europe, the Turkish Sultan was 
chiefly celebrated as a conqueror; and it will be deemed sufficient 
to maintain the justness of his claim to this distinction, that he was 
always viewed, both by Charles and by Francis, as a formidable rival, 
whose good offices it was indispensable to propitiate. But, by the 
annals of his own empire, Solyman First is renowned as an abla 
lawgiver, as well as a brave warrior ; and, as a ruler, not more eu*- 
terprising than he vvas wise. 

There were at that remarkable period other men, who, although 
moving in orbits less distinguished than those whom we have named. 


4 


THE NEW WORLD. 


Francis 


•yet may not with propriety be viewed as stars of secondary magni- 
tude, when we consider the influence of their characters and talents, 
and the splendor which their renown reflects upon their age, and the 
respective nations in which they lived. Among these may be men- 
tioned the names of Zuingliu3 and Erasmus — of Melancthcn, and the 
Duke and Elector of Saxony — of Bayard, the Chevalier, and of 
Beza, the translator of the Psalm3 — of Ximenes, the wise counsellor 
of Charles, and of his tutor, the Lord of Chievres, the accomplished 
■William of Croye — of Guicciardini, who sastained the sieges and 
achieved the successes which he recorded ; and the last of the Trou- 
badours, Clement Marot. 

It was the era, too, of many of the most remarkable discoveries 
and inventions, which have ever rendered an age illustrious; inso 
much that we know not which to view as most extraordinary, when 
we consider their origin, their character, and their effects — the re- 
sults of the explorations of the followers of Columbus and Gama, 
or the practical application of the invention cf Faust. The former 
have laid open a new world to mankind ; the latter has proven a ful- 
fillment of the Syracusan’s vision to move the old. We are at a loss, 
too, which to regard as mest remarkable, the achievements of that 
era in discovery, invention, conquest, and revolution, or the person- 
ages to whom it gave birth. 

We come now to speak of the two great actors in the magnificent 
drama of the first half of the sixteenth century — those individuals by 
whose movements were directed, and en whose policy were depend- 
ant, to a greater ora less extent, the destinies of all the states and all 
the dignitaries of Europe: whose conflicting interests acted as the 
grand centrifugal and centripetal forces in the vast system of politics 
which at that time existed, to whose permanent power the lesser orbs 
In that firmament were entirely subservient — who were the “ two 
great lights” to rule the day and the night, or rather, twin suns in 
the political sky of Christendom. Those individuals, were Francis 
of Valois and Charles of Spain. 

Of the character and the career of the latter, it is unnecessary, at 
present, to say mere, than that he was the first son of Philip, the 
handsome Archduke of Austria, and the unhappy Joan ef Arragon ; 
and that, for brilliant powers in the cabinet and in the field — as a 
general, as a statesman, and as a ruler, few monarchs have ever filled 
a throne with the ability and the dignity of Charles the Fifth. Few 
monarchs, too, have advanced by such rapid and powerful strides as 
Jie did to extensive dominion, and with an unvarying continuity of 
good fortune, which almost justified the superstitious reliance on the 
auspicious “ star of Austria,” under whose influences, whether be- 
nign or baleful, he had his birth: and the resignation cf that power 
at its height maybe viewed as yet more wonderful than the good for- 
tune which attended, or the capacity which conduced to its attain- 
ment. 

But, illustrious as was the young monarch of Spain, he had a rival 
not unworthy of his fame, and so intimately is the history of Charles 
associated with that of the monarch, who, for twenty-eight years, 
was his competitor for the supremacy of Europe, that to recite the 
leading events in the career of one, it would be impossible not to 
make constant allusion to the achievements of the other. 

In reviewing the annals of ages, as of nations, we sometimes meet 
with individuals, who seem to concentrate in their own characters, 
the distinguishing peculiarities of the eras in which they flourished 
If a remark like this is true of any of the heroes of history, it is pre- 
eminently true of Francis the First, of France. By the men of his 
own time, not less than by the chroniclers of his career, has this ac 
complished monarch been regarded as an embodiment of the romance 
and the chivalry of the sixteenth century. By the historian of that 
ora we are told, that “ Francis was ambitious to distinguish himself 
by all the qualities of an accomplished knight, and endeavored to 
Imitate the enterprising genius of chivalry in war, as well as its pomp 
and courtesy during peace ; and that the fame which the French 
monarch acquired by these splendid actions, so far dazzled his more 
temperate rival, that he departed on some occasions from his usual 
prudence and moderation, and emulated Francis in deeds cf prowess 
or of gallantry.” 

Elegant in hi3 person, graceful in his manners, accomplished in 
conversation, eloquent in the cabinet, undaunted in conflict, of a 
liberality which amounted to profusion and a gallantry which degen- 
erated into vice; ambitious, impetuous, fervid, he was regarded by 
his contemporaries as the mirror of chivalric perfection, and “ the ' 
■very mould of form.” Historians concur in the declaration that he 
wag humane, beneficent, and generous; that he possessed dignity 
without pride, affability without meanness, and courtesy without de- 
ceit. Easy of access, all who formed his acquaintance respected and 


loved him ; and charmed and dazzled by the winning courtesy of “ the 
most accomplished and amiable man in France,” they murmured net 
at his deficiencies as a monarch. 

To Francis, also, belongs the illustrious title of Father of Letters, 
an appellation which has rendered his name no less honored amoEg 
posterity, than his chivalric virtues rendered him the idol ef his age. 
In the honors, the offices, and the confidence which he bestowed on. 
the learned, and tne encouragement which he extended to science 
and the arts, he was rivalled only by the munificent and courtly Leo. 
Scholars in other countries, among whom were the elegant Erasmus, 
and the ami-able Melancthon, were invited to Paris. Topics, on 
which he desired information, were given to men of learning, who 
read to him subsequently, at his hoars of leisure and during his meals,., 
the productions of their genius. He instituted a college— he found- 
ed a press — he augmented the royal library and made a cellection o L 
manuscripts — he caused the laws of his realm to be published in 
French, instead of the barbarous Latin before in use ; while the pala- 
ces of Fontainbleau and the Louvre, and others of the most magnifi- 
cent structures of the time, are monuments of his taste in the arts, 
and his encouragement of their professors. 

In the reiga of Francis, also, may we date the commencement of 
that courtesy and elegance, and that free intermingling of the sexes, 
for which the French court has ever sines been renowned. The li- 
centious gallantry of the times, however, to which the example of 
Francis lent but too much encouragement, must be considered as 
dearly purchased by any amelioration or increased amenity of man- 
ners. Another stain upon the reign of this monarch, was his uncall- 
ed for cruelty against heretics to the Catholic church. To check the 
progress of the opinions of Luther in his dominions, many of his sub- 
jects, and his own sister, the queen of Navarre, haring manifested 
for the new doctrines favorable feelings, he permitted six of these un- 
happy beings to be burned before his palace. 

It has been well said of Francis, that, but for his unbounded 
ambition — his generosity, his courtesy, and his love cf letters might 
have rendered France happy. Living at the era of the revival of 
learning, and when the spirit of invention and discovery were fully 
awakened by the triumphs of the preceding century, the zeal and 
munificence of Francis were admirably adapted to give him distinc- 
tion by their encouragement. It was in the latter years pf his 
that, under his auspices, Jacques Cartier sailed on a vO^a^V of dis- 
covery from St. Malo, the result of which was the addition of 
Canada to the crown of France. 

The birth place of Francis was the village of Cognac on the banks 
of the Charente, and more distinguished for that event and for the 
excellent brandy which has long formed its principal staple of 
exportation, than for any other circumstances of which we are 
aware. His father was Charles of Orleans, Count of Angouleme; 
his mother, the celebrated Louise of Savoy. On the decease of 
Louis XII., by whom he had been married to Claude, his eldest 
daughter, Francis ascended the throne of France on the first day of 
the year 1515, in the twentieth year of his age. 

Burning for distinction, and resolved to sustain the claims of his 
house on the duchy of Milan, the ambitious prince was hardly on the 
throne, before he commenced his warlike preparations. His coffers 
were rapidly filled by a series of measures as impolitic as they were 
arbitrary ; a powerful army was marshalled for the field ; upon his 
mother, Louise of Savoy, was devolved the regency of his kingdom, 
and his first campaign commenced. Against him were confederated 
the Emperor Maximilian, Ferdinand of Arragon, Leo the Tenth, 
Sforza, Dake of Milan, and the Swiss by whom Sforza had been 
established on the ducal throne. By the Swiss were held all the 
pisses of their native Alps; but the ardor and indomitable perse- 
verance of the French troop3 ei.her found or made other avenues 
through this barrier to Italy ; and, at length, having triumphed over 
every obstacle, both of nature and of art, they found ther/.selves on 
the banks of the Po. Their first act was to take by surprise one 
thousand cavalry of the papal forces there encamped, and utterly 
ignorant of their approach. 

At the head of his chivalric troops Frencis soon entered the 
Milanese, and, on the plains of Marignano, only one league from 
the capital, met with the first resistance, ia a powerful army ef 
Swiss. 

It was about four in the afternoon of September 13. 1515, that the 
hostile nations found themselves marshalled ngain6t each other in 
battle array. The Swiss were addressed by the eloquent Cardinal of 
Sion, and, although but two hours of daylight yet remained, imme- 
diately rushed onward to the attack. The conflict wa.3 dreadful. 
The chronicles of warfare record sca r ;e]y another inr.'ar.ce of an- 


Of Valois. 


THE NEW WORLD. 


5 


engagement so obstinate. Long after datkness had fallen over the 1 ' 

combatants, the fight raged on. At tne head of his Black Bands of 1 1 
Suabia, wherever the conflict was fiercest — wherever the carnage 
was most fearful, there was the brave young monarch of France. 

At dawn the battle was renewed ; and, through all that day until 
late at night, it raged on. At length, the Switzers were routed, 
leaving ten thousand of their countrymen on the field with six thous- 
and dead bodies of their foes. In the midst of the slain, covered 
with blood and wounds, Francis received knighthood by the accolade 
of Chevalier Bayard ! 

The conduct of the young monarch in this his first battle is said to 
have bee-n wonderfully intrepid. Late on the night when the con- 
flict commenced, he threw himself on the carriage of a cannon for a 
few moments of rest, until the day should dawn. In the van of 
every charge floated the black plumes of his morion ; his voice rang 
out like a trumpet above the roar of battle ; horse after horse was 
killed beneath him, and when the fight had closed, and the shout of 
victory went upTrom his triumphant troops, he fell senseless to the 
earth, covered with contusions, and dripping with gore. 

To the matchless prowess of Francis, and the martial skill of the 
Constable, Charles of Bourbon, i3 ascribed the victory of the day ; 
and the aged Marshal Trivulzio, whohjtd witnessed eighteen pitched 
battles, is said by history to have declared upon the bloody field, that 
“ they were all of them mere child’s play compared with this Fight 
of the Giants ! ” 

The result of this victory was favorable to the aspirations of 
Francis in the highest degree. The whole Milanese was at once 
surrendered to his power, and the Duke Maximilian Sforza, abdica- 
ting his authority, retired into France, there to pass peacefully the 
remainder of his days. Genoa, warned by the fate of Milan, at once 
declared for the conqueror ; and Leo, in behalf of the papal states, 
hastened to proffer terms of peace, and to grant his concordat 
shortly after, at Bologna. A year afterwards Chievres, the tutor of 
Charles of Spain ; and Gouffier, tutor of Francis, met as plenipoten- 
tiaries of their illustrious pupils, and signed the treaty of Noyon, the 
leading articles of which were the restoration of Navarre to Francis, 
and the betrothal of his eldest daughter, Louise, an infant of but one 
year, to Charles ! 

Thus far the star of Francis has continued in the ascendant. 
Fortune from his birth has smiled upon him- Monarch of the 
bravest and most polished court — accomplished in all the arts of 
peace and of war — the object of woman’s love and of man’s admi- 
ration — honored at home and respected abroad — Francis of Valois, 
in the second year of his reign, was the brightest star in the regal 
constellation of the age. 

From that period to the death of the E-nperor Maximilian, a period 
vga rSfr ibe name of the French prince but seldom occurs in 
the dKr'iucles of the times. At this auspicious climacteric in the 
career of Francis oar review of his biography closes, and our tale 
begins. 




The Fictio.v embodied in the succeeding pages is founded on 
scenes in one of the dramatic poems of Victor Hugo, entitled 
“Le Roi d’ Amuse.” In November, 1832, it was produced at the 
Theatre Frangais. Next morning it was condemned by a ministe- 
terial order. Its denunciations of royal license, though three cen- 
turies old, were deemed hazardous to the safety even of a citizen 
king ! E. F. 

Marietta, Nov , 1S42. 

CHAPTER I THE FETE. 

“ Roll on, roll on, dark chariot of the storm,” 

Whose wheels are ihunder! The rack’d elements 
Can furnish forth no tempest like the war 
Of passions in one weak and erring heart 1 ” 

The music, and the banquet, and the wine— 

The garlands, the rose-odors, and the flowers — 

The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments— 

The wht’e aims, and the raven hair— the braid* 

And bracelet- ; swan-like bosoms, and the necklace. 

An India in itself, yvt dazzling not 

The eye like wliai it circled; the thin robes 

Flca’ing like light clouds ’twist our gaze an t heaven ; 

The m any-twinkling feet, so small and sylph like, 

Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
Of the fair forms which terminate so well. 

Marixo Fauero, Act. IV. 

A Fete at the Louvre, in the early half of the sixteenth century ! 
That old r°gal edifice — so old, indeed, that the era of its origin and 
the derivation of its nama have not come down to us — half prison, 
half palace — enlarged by Philip Augustus, and left incomplete by 
Napoleon, after exhausting the taste and the treasure of six centu- 
ries of monarchs— this ancient edifice, one summer night, more than 
three hundred years ago, was blazing with flambeaux, and resounding 
with merriment. Along - its lengthened galleries, and through its 
magnificent halls, moved throngs of the brave and the beautiful — the 
titled and the distinguished. 

There was Claude, eldest daughter of the deceased Louis, amia- 
ble Queen of France ; and by her side, in maiden beauty, like a star 
on the verge of the horizon, sat Anne, the fair daughter of Thomas 
Boleyn, destined victim, alas ! to the lawless love of Henry of Eng- 
land. There was the high and haughty Duchess ot Angouleme, 
relict of Charles of Orleans, and indulgent mother of Francis— the 


unprincipled, the imperious, the passionate Louise of Savoy; and 
hei daughter, the widowed Duchess of Alencon — the accomplished 
Margaret of Valois, affianced to the young soldier at her side, Henry 
D’Albret, the monarch ot Navarre. There, too, the star of the 
night, was the fai. descendant of the ancient house of Poictiers — 
Diana, Duchess of Valentinois,* favorite of the king. And there 
was the ambitious Charles, Duke of Bourbon, Lord High Constable 
of the realm, the illustrious victim of the amorous and vindictive 
Louise of Savoy; and Bayard, “the most accomplished gentleman 
at the French court;” and La Tremouille, the conqueror of Suffolk 
and the English; and Odet of Foix, and his gallant brother, the 
champion of Navarre ; and many, many another, whose name is 
memorable in the chronicles of that memorable era, but whom, as 
we shall have occasion to introduce them, as our story advances, we 
now omit to mention. 

For the first time was that magnificent range of apartments, now 
designated as the “ Old Louvre ,” added to that ancient pile by Fran- 
cis the First, thrown open to the admiration of the most refined and 
polished court in Europe. In the elegant severity ef the architec- 
ture — in the style of the furniture, of the hangings, of the decorations, 
of the vestments of the guests — even in the form and fashion of the 
richly-embossed and enameled plate which flashed in the lamp- 
light, as, sparkling with costly wines and laden with rare viands, 
they were borne along by liveried menials — in almost everything, 
indeed, might be observed the infl« n ce of that revival of correct 
taste in the arts, at that epoch remarkable in France. 

Hour chased hour lightly away, and midnight had passed. There 
was music ^nd dancing; and peals of merry laughter, and shouts of 
rout and revel rang along the splendid saloons. There was the rustle 
of silken vestments, and the waving of tresses yet more silken; the 
flish of bright jewels, and the sparkle of eyes yet brighter ; the nod- 
ding of plumes, and the glitter and jingle of armor. The brave and 
the lovely whirled by in the voluptuous waltz ; and there was the 
murmuring of soft lip3 and of deep tones in the secluded promenade. 

Among those who had retired from the close atmosphere of the 
thronged saloons, and were pacing the grand colonnaded gallery, in 
order to inhale the perfumed breath of those elegant grounds, since 
so celebrated in history as the “Gardens of the Tuileries,” were two 
cr.valiers, who were distinguished, as much by the nobility of their 
bearing as by the richness of their dress, from the general throng. 
One of these was a young man of apparently some five-and-twenty 
years. His stature was not remarkable for height ; but his shoulders 
were broad, and his breast was brawny, and his whole form, though 
strongly developed, was symmetrical in its proportions, and gave 
evidence both of activity and power. The style of the face was 
aquiline. The brow was full and broad, yet not lofty. The eye was 
large and laughing, and an expression peculiarly winning rested in 
its dark blue depths. The hair w’as chestnut, and gathered in close 
dense masses around the head ; while the beard, according to the 
fashion of the times, extended in thick curls beneath and around the 
chin. The complexion was sunburnt, except where the helmet had 
protected the forehead from exposure in the field ; the cheek-bones 
were high, the cheeks thin, the neck broad and muscular. 

But the most striking — indeed, the characteristic features of this 
remarkable face were the moHth and the nose. The latter was a 
singular union of the Grecian farm with the Roman, for it was very 
straight, very prominent, and very angular. Upon the thin and ex- 
pressive lips seemed lingering a perpetual smile — a smile of mingled 
humor and sentiment, though the former predominated. Gayety, 
indeed, seemed the ruling expression of the countenance, though, at 
times, subdued by a shade of thought; and in the graceful and ele- 
gant, though rapid movements, and the soft and clear- toned voice, 
were manifested the accomplished and fascinating courtesy of the 
knight and the troubadour of the age of romance. Every attitude 
was graceful, yet unstudied ; every gesture was easy, yet dignified; 
every glance mild, yet commanding ; every tone courteous, yet noble. 
Individually, there wa3 scarce a feature of that face or figure, how T - 
ever striking it might seem, which could be termed handsome, if, 
perhaps, we except the mouth ; yet altogether, they made up the 
person of the most fascinating, as well as the most amiable and 
accomplished gentleman in Europe. No one could have looked 
upon that young cavalier in any garb — in any station — and turned 
away his eyes W’ith indifference; nor can we even now, after the 
lapse of more than three centuries, gaze Upon that remarkable coun- 
tenance, as handed down to us by the pencil of Titum, and doubt 
that these were the features of a remarkable man. 

The dress of this young cavalier w r as in strict accordance with his 
person and his manners. It was rich and imposing, though it seemed 
to owe those attributes rather to the taste with which it was adapted 
to the figure and was w r orn, than to the splendor or costliness of the 
material of which it was composed. A low vest of white satin, 
exposing the throat, and partially open upon the breast, served well 
to exhibit their fine muscular developments ; while the velvet pour- 
point of deep purple, falling in heavy folds upon the shoulders around 
the figure, gave to it an air at once dignified and graceful. 

The companion upon whose arm this young man leaned, as, is 
earnest conversation, the pair paced the illuminated gallery, was, as 
his garb betokened, an officer of high military station. He was, 
apparently, the elder of the two by some years. His figure was 
large and commanding. On his lofty brow and noble yet care-worn 

* The student ot History v.’ill not look for sii id accuracy in Fiction. 


6 


THE NEW WORLD. 


Francis 


leaturet, were enstamped pride and power, in lineaments too legible 
to be misinterpreted ; and yet, upon his lip rested the same engaging 
smile, and in his voice and bearing were to be remarked the same 
high- bred courtesy, that distinguished his companion. 

And whom think you, reader, ivere these two personages we have 
described at such expenditure of good writing-paper, not to mention 
our own trouble and time 1 The first was none other than Francis 
of Orleans, Count of Angouleme — “ the merry monarch” of France, 
as was Charles Stuart, a hundred years after, the “merry monarch” 
of England, and the first of his name on his ancestral throne. The 
other was Bonnivet, admiral of the kingdom ; brave, chivalric, 
nobk, endued with all knightly courtesies and accomplishments, and 
the beloved and bosom confidant of his royal lord. Like most of the 
eminent men of that era — like Francis himself — Bonnivet’s mind was 
strongly tinctured with a spirit of romance; and he was as ambi- 
tious el the reputation of an accomplished and courteous gentle- [ 
man in time of peace, as of that of a brave and galknt knight in 
time of war. This will seem the less remarkable when we consider 
that this was the era of Bayard, the knight without fear and with- 
out reproach — sans peur el sans rcproche, in the language of Brantome 
— and whose prowess in combat, whose punctilious honor and formal 
gallantry, according to an elegant historian, bear a nearer resem- 
blance than anything recorded, to the character ascribed to the 
heroes of chivalry. 

Bat return we to the Louvre. 

“ I tell thee,” was the earnest exclamation ©f Francis — “ I tell 
thee, Bonnivet, I hate this cold constable, Charles of-Bourbon. You 
hate him, too. Greatly do I misdoubt, also, notwithstanding his pro- 
testations, that his purpose is to place himself at the head of my foes 
in Italy, so soon as he can do it without the immediate cost of his 
head. For me to leave the kingdom at present, is impossible. To 
thee, then, my faithful Bonnivet, shall I commit my interests ia the 
Milanese.”*. 

The features of the admiral lighted up with gratitude and joy. 
“ Sire !” he exclaimed — 

“ Nay — nay, no thanks. I am but serving myself through the 
prowess cf the first gentleman, as one of the bravest soldiers in my 
realm. Besides, admiral, no other of my generals has such powerful 
inducements to succeed as you have. No one but Bonnivet has won 
the love of fair Agnes of Milan, though many gentlemen of France 
have been equally fascinated — Francis among the rest. But no jea- 
lousy ! My heart is in Paris, just at present. And this reminds me 
of the amour cf which I spoke to you some days ago.” 

“ Ah, yes ! And how progress you, sire T* 

“ Progress ?” Not at all. Never, in the whole course of my life, 
have I been more deeply interested, and never less successful. In 
faith I am losing all patience. The girl is a soubretle of about eight 
een — of humble origin, no doubt, but as bewitchingly beautiful as — 
as your Agnes of Milan, Bonnivet.” 

“ And you meet her but once a week, I think you told me 1” said 
the admiral. 

“Yes, every Sabbath, at the church of Saint Germain. She’ll 
make a perfect Waldense of me, if this goes on much longer. I’m 
more than half priest for her sake now. I have sought her thus for 
two months.” 

“And the fair one lives — ” 

“In a secluded house near the Hotel Vendome, in the midst of a 
small park.” 

“Ah, yes ! surrounded by a high wall of brick. I remember the 
spot well, and have ihought it a grand place for an intrigue. And 
you have pursued her home to this seclusion, sire 1” 

“ To be sure I have,” replied the kiBg, somewhat hastily. “But 
an old hag of a woman has always pursued her steps, also, like a 
special providence, to guard her from harm ; and such strict watch 
and ward does this old crow keep over the eyes, ears, mouth, if not 
every other sense of my pretty dove, that of precious little benefit to 
myself or to any one else, is my pertinacity. Another thing more 
strange and quite as annoying is tbe circumstance, that often cf a 
dark night, a man, closely enveloped in a mantle, will glide stealthily 
along beneath the wall, and, at length, ail at once, most mysteriously, 
by some secret entrance, disappear into the hr,U3e.” 

“ Do the same, sire !” said Bonnivet, with a smile. 

“ Oh, the devil ! The walk are tall as a dorjon-keep, and the 
doors would stand a fortnight’s battering with a ram !” 

“ And has the girl ever given any sign of having observed you, or 
thitshe is at all aware who her lover is, sire V' asked Bonnivet. 

“As to that,” replied Francis, “ I think, if I know anything of 
the language of a woman’s eye, that I may interpret sundry glances 
which the fair creature has ihought fit to bestow upon me, to intimate 
no insurmountable repugnance to my person. She knows, of 
course, nothing of my station, as I am always disguised in the cos- 
tume of a scholar.” 

“ Ah, I perceive,” said the admiral, laughing. “ Your majesty is. 
in a fair way to carry on a very platonic arnour with the wife or 
ladye-iove of some curt, for a twelvemonth, mayhap. But here 
comes Triboulet. He, I suppose, knows all about the affair, and is ( 
certainly the most accomplished intriguant at court. If he fails, none 
of us can hope to assist you, sire.” 

“ Triboulet knows nothing of this affair,” replied the king. “ How . 
it has happened that I have not yet thought proper to avail myself 


ot his remarkable genius in such matters, I hardly know. On the 
whole, however, I am inclined to believe, that keeping the amour 
concealed, even frem Triboulet, is good policy at present. What say 
you, Triboulet 1” continued the king, in a louder tone, “ is not silence 
indispensable to success in love V’ 

( “ Question a fool according to his folly,” replied the individual 
who now joined the pair. “Francis is a very wise young king, no 
doubt. Let it not be said that his wisdom is the wisdom of a fool.” 

The person from whom came this bold reply, was one of those 
unfortunate beings called dwarfs, who, at that era, in the absence of 
, more rational taste or means of amusement, were selected for their 
hideousness cf form and feature, as well a3 for the brilliancy of wit 
often concealed under such an uncouth exterior, like a gem in an. 
earthen casket, to afford amusement in hours of relaxation to even 
j the proudest dignitaries of the most polished courts. 

The miserable being who now joined the group, could lay claim to 
even more than an ordinary degree of the hideousness of his hideous 
class; and, in the same ratio.be exhibited more briiiiancy of wit 
and more pungency cf sarcasm. His deep, dark, bead-like eye 
seemed the very concentration of malice and venom, as it darted Us 
keen flashes through the tangled eyebrows. The figure was short 
and squat. One would suppose that it had been crushed lengthwise 
at sotAe time by seme enormous mass upon the head. His shoul- 
ders were bread, muscular and powerful. From his breast pro- 
truded a huge bump, and from his back a larger ene. His feet 
were prodigious, and his hands were, if possible, more prodigious 
than his feet. His legs each formed a parabola from the thigh 
to the heel; and, united, constituted a fair representation cf an 
eliipse. The head and the face of this unfortunate being presented 
a strange contrast to the rest of his person. Although, as has been 
said, his eye was small and sunken, k evinced an unusual degree of 
intelligence; and it fl.ckered and flashed beneath the broad and 
massive brow, like a human lamp. The prevailing expression upen 
bis features was gioom, lighted up, from time to time, by lurid 
gleams which shot across it, even as the electric glare shoots athwart 
the deep darkness of a threatening cloud. His costume was that of 
court jesters at the time. Its hue was blue, slashed with crimson. 
It was profusely sprinkled with small silver bells, which tinkled not 
unpleasantly as he moved along. The fool’s cap on his head, and 
the bauble — a mock sc< ptre— in his hand, completes the description. 

“And what think you of the fete, Triboulet 1” asked the king; 
“ and who, accsrding to your most exquisite taste, is the star of the 
1 night 1” 

“ The fete is certainly worthy of your new palace, ccusln Francis, 
sr.d the palace is certainly worthy the extravagance cf the hair- 
brained young man who reared it. As for the star of the night. I think 
it can be none other than the royal consort, Claude af 
der. She shines at a distance, and is the enlykuy who-seems fixed. 
All the rest are planets.” 

The king colored slightly at this allusion to one more worthy of 
admiration, on some accounts, than any other in those lighted 
saloons ; who, yet in ail her loveliness and splendor, sat most neg- 
lected, because, forsooth, upon her rested the dignity of the Queea 
of France. 

“ Ha ! my beautiful friend, the Countess de Vendome !” exclaimed 
the king, as he surveyed a group of ladies who were passing. Among 
them was one superb creature, whose voluptuous person and seduciBg 
manners were worthy the sultana of a harem. 

“Her husband, sire !” said Bonnivet, in a low tone. “A little 
, lower, or the count will hear you. He is just at your side.” 

The count was short, fat, and awkwax*! — according to Bra He me, 
one of the four greatest gentlemen in France. 

“ And, if he does hear, what matters it I” replied the king, laughing. 
“ He will get the worst of it.” 

“ Yes, but it will ccme to the ears of Diana,” said the admiral. 

“ And again, what matters that ?” said the king, with a slight frown, 
turning abruptly away to address the new object of his fickle fancy. 

“ What does it all mean ?” said Bonnivet to the jester. “ He has 
not spoken with the fair Diana of Poicters in public this seven-night. 
He can hardly meditate yielding her up to her husband again 1 
Wliat think you, Triboulet, my prince of intriguants.” 
j “ Think I why, that the king is just beginning to love his victim.' 
When a man and a woman take especial pains to avoid each other, 
on a night like this, be sure, there is more of love than of hate in it 
all” 

“ She has recompensed her father’s pardon, so they can part fair 
quits, if they choose,” said the admiral. ‘ But, apropos of this lord 
of Saint Valiiar, it was a strange idea of that strange ©Id man to com- 
mit this daughter of his, so exquisite in her beaniy, and his only 
child, to the nuptial couch of a hunchback seneschal, though he were 
grand-seneschal of Normandy. A blind man might have foreseen 
what has resulted.” 

“ Louis de Breze is not a very elegant cavalier,” returned the 
jester, “ any more than some other very passable people,” survey- 
ing his own person as he spoke. “As for Saint Yalliar, he is, en 
verite, an old fool. I was beside him on the scaffold when his par- 
don came, nearer than I am now to you, admiral, at this moment, 
j He was grave and pale, but not in the least agitated. When the 
pardon was placed in his hand, just as he was about bowing his head 
to the executioner, all be was heard to say was— “ God keep the 
king !” They soy he is now a mere imbecile, a perfect wreck.” 


*.An. 9.0 


Of Valois. 


THE NEW WORLD 


CHAPTER II THE COURTIERS. 

“ Ye have angels’ faces, but Heaven knows your beaus.” 
You know their private virtues 
Far better than we can, to whom alone 
'i’ueir public vices, ami most foul oppression , 

Have made tl»em deadly. 


Byron. 


“Alas! Dam? Margaret Douglas would rather hear a Huguenot psalm of Clement 
Marot sung to the tune of “ Rzvsillcr v jus, belle endormie — 

The Abbot, vol ii. c. xv. 

“ Ah, cruel ! And will you, indeed, forsake Paris 1” 

Such was the earnest inquiry of Francis, in a low tone, addressed 
to the beautiful Countess of Vendome, as the pair walked slowly past 
the spot on which stood the admiral and the jester ; their arms 
closely locked and her hand clasped in his. 

“ Must you, indeed, go 1” repeated the king- 

“ I have no choice, sire,” was the reply, in a soft and trembling 
voice. “ My husband goes to Soissons, and his wife must, of course 
accompany him, if he wishes it.” 

“ And is it not intolerable,” exclaimed the young king, with the 
high-flown, complimentary gallantry of the age and nation ; “ Is it 
not intolerable, at a moment when all Paris, the proudest nobles and 
brightest wits, fix upon you eyes filled with admiration ; at the most 
envied point of your envied career; when all the perpetrators of 
duets and of sonnets reserve for your charms their most polished, 
verses, and their most skilful blows; when those beautiful eyes, scat- 
tering everywhere their soft flames, eclipse the brilliancy of those 
©f all other ladies of my court, and steal away their lovers : is it not, 
indeed, too hard, that you, who shed upon our capital such splendor, 
that when this sun has departed, w r e shall doubt if it is yet day — that 
you should go, despite of king and noble, to beam an imperial star in 
a provincial firmament !” 

“Ah, you mock me! Pray be silent, sire!” murmured the 
gratified woman, as she bowed her blushing face, and fixed her dark 
sparkling eyes upon the ground. 

“ No, Florence, no : I must not be silent. This sudden resolution 
is all your own caprice ; and it quenches the most brilliant lustre in 
the height of the fete. If it be possible, I must — ” 

At that moment the lady raised her eyes, and then hurriedly dis- 
engaged herself from the king. Surprised, Francis also glanced \ 
around, and perceived the cause of the lady’s fright in her husband, 
who was entering the gallery. 

“My jealous husband !” she exclaimed, and with a smile and a 
nod she was lost among the throng. 

“ The devil take the man !” said the king, turning to the jester, after 
gazing a moment after the beautiful countess. “ I have addressed 
not less than a quatrain of poetry to his wife. Did Clement 6how 
you those last verses of mine, Triboulet 1” 

“ 0\ he sure,” said the jester: “he was very anxious to inflict 
tken u ;. He, aid not succeed, however. The fact is. cousin 

Francis, I make it a point never to mind yeur verses. A king’s 
poetry is invariably intolerable. Let the canaille make rhymes, good 
or bad. People should stick to their callings : your’s is to make love, 
sire, Marot’s to make verses. It is low business for a monarch, this i 
rhyme-writing.” 

“ You’re a fool, Triboulet,” rejoined the king, laughing. “ To 
thyme to the beautiful, honors the lover as well as the beloved. Is 
it not so, my fair queen of hearts I” said the king to a young maid 
of honor of dazzling charms, who now drew nigh. 

She was no other than the unfortunate Anne Boleya, who then, ! 
in hsr first loveliness, was receiving the accomplishments of education j 
at the m >3t elegant court in Europe. 

As the gallant monarch joined the fair English girl, and addressed 
to her some of those ready compliments ever upon his lips, the 
Countess de Vendome again appeared, and her quick eye at once ! 
caught the situatiouof her royal lover. 

“ Now my head on it,” said Triboulet, who had observed the 
glance of the countess — “ My head cn it, a glove or a flower will be I 
dropped by yonder fair lady, before the night i3 three minutes older.” i 

The jester was right.. While the words were yet on his lips, the j 
countess swept slowly by the spot on which the king wa 3 standing 
eagerly conversing with his comp anion, and carelessly dropped h«r 
bouquet at his feet. 

In an instant the courteous monarch was on his knee. The flow- 
ers were restored to their owner, and her arm and hand were 
again in the possession ol on», from whom the lady seemed to have 
no inclination ever to withdraw them. 

, “ I’m a prophet as well as a fool, it would seem,” again murmured 
the jester with a smite of malicious satisfaction, as he witnessed the 
scene which was pasiing before his watchful eye. “Oh, woman, 
if thou art an angel, then angels are very artful beings, as well as! 
very beantiful— that’s all. Ha !” continued the buffoon, as he still 
gazed. “ What now 1 Yes, I see that troublesome husband again ! 
He wa3 certainly regaled with a pleasant sight then — his wife more 
than half way in a monarch's arms !” 

Ah, ray Triboulet, am I not a happy fellow 1” cried the young 
Jting, again joining the jester! “Jupiter! what a woman! What! 
eyes -lips -bosom! Oi, I am hajspy ! And you, old fellow — how 
are you, to-night I Are you happy !” 

“ Considerably,” was the slow and quiet answer. “ I laugh a good 
deal at all I ses — the coquetry — the envy — the vanity — the jealousy — 
oh, it is rare sport to stand aside unobserved and watch all this ! I 
philosophise, and you act. You are huppy as a king, I as an old 


I hunchback jester. Oh, we are two fine fellows, to be sure, each in 

j his own way, and enjoy ourselves at a fete largely !” 

« All goes gayly with me,” replied the king, “ except the jealousy 
of this fat fool, Vendome. N’imporle, we’ll find a way yet. Jove 
was a joke to Francis the First ; and his Olympus a mole-hill to my 
Louvre !” 

“It is my respectful belief, sire, that you are drunk,” said the 
j jester, with an air of imperturbable gravity, reprovingly shaking his 
i head. 

“ Ah, very like — very like !” replied the monarch. “But stay — 
those eyes again! by Venus, those matchless eyes! there they go ! 
Now for a curtain lecture. But, come, Triboulet — some wine — this 
love-making is thirsty business. Come, you shall be our bodyguard 
to the shrine of Bacchus — 

Vivent les gaies dimanches 
Du pen pits de Paris! 

Quand les femmes sont blanches ” — 
sang the merry prince, as he left the apartment — 

“ Quand les hommes sont agis /” 

chimed in his hunchback comrade, completing a verse of a popular 
drinking-song of the time, from the popular pen of Clement Marot, 

As the pair disappeared, the poet himself entered the saloon, and,, 
j approaching a group of the courtiers, was cordially saluted as afavor- 
1 ite by all. 

He was a young man of about twenty. His^figure was slight and 
elegant, and his manners were urbane. His eyes and his complexion 
I were dark, and his night-black hair, parted upon his broad, fine brow, 
j fell in masses upon his shoulders. He had come to the French court 
as a page to Margaret, sister of Francis, whose court he subsequently 
j joined when she was Queen of Navarre ; and he soon became the 
| favorite of the merry monarch, whose disposition was so much like 
his own — as well as of the whole court. 

Marot seems to have been addicted to some of the license of the 
troubadour, as well as to have possessed his genius. His amour with 
he beautiful Diana of Poictiers is mentioned by French chronicles 
as well known; and a warmer attachment than that of mere friend- 
ship is more than suspected to have existed between the poet and 
the young Queen of Navarre. Marot was as gallant on the field, as 
even in the bovver of his lady t love. He accompanied Francis over 
the Alps, and was wounded and made captive at the unfortunate bat- 
tle of Pavia. The romantic monarch had vowed to capture that city 
or perish ; and it was not until his favorite Bonnivet, with 10,000 of’ 
the flower of his army were slain beneath its walls, that he deemed 
himself released from the sanction he had assumed ! On Marot’s 
return to Paris, he was imprisoned on suspicion of Calvinism ; and 
during his confinement, issued an edition of the celt brated “Romance 
of the Rose.” Twenty years afterward, John Calvin made the poe6 
a member of the church of Geneva ; and, in conjunction withBeza, 
he completed a translation of the Psalms in his own epigrammatic 
style — the style Marotique — which were long used by the Huguenots 
of France in their sabbath worship. These Geneva Psalms of Marot’s 
were much noted. But the gay-hearted troubadour soon recanted 
the doetrines ofa faith so little congenial to his natural taste; and at 
length, twenty years after the date of our story, an exile and a catho- 
lic, he died at Turin. 

Such was the eventful career of tit? young and brilliant poet, who 
was now a star of no ordinary magnitude at the court of Francis the 
First. 

“ Ah, Clement ! you poets are sad fellows ! ” exclaimed a tall, sol- 
dierly-looking young man, in the splendid uniform of field marshal, 
as he cordially saluted the poet. “ This is your first entrit at the fete 
to-night; an amour of no ordinary interest could have caused your 
absence. Ah, you are a true troubadour,” continued the young 
officer, reprovingly shaking his head. “ We must have you sent to 
a monastery, or married — which shall it be ? ” 

The gay poet very earnestly deprecated either fate, evidently con- 
sidering one as little to be desired as the other — in fact, regarding 
them equally to be dreaded. He was evidently by no means anxious 
to be questioned upon his whereabout for the night; and, to direct 
attention into another channel, inquired with much seeming interest 
the incidents of the fete. 

“ Oh, the fete has gone off grandly,” was the reply. “A perfect 
orgie, in fact ! Never wa3 it surpassed, to the best of the remembrance 
| of us all. Ah, Clement, you have lost so much! Splendid enter- 
tainment — lovely women — enchanting music! Our merry monarch 
has been perfectly in his element — up to his eyes in love and beauty; 
we have never known him more amused.” 

“ Not very pleasant news that, to all, I fancy,” replied Marot with 
a significant smile “ We all kaow how Francis of Valois is best 
amused ; and we know, too, his irresistible powers of amusing. 
Thank heaven, J am not a husband, unless my better moiety could 
possess the years and attractions of the Witch of Endor! But here 
comes the good admiral ! Now for some news! He never weare 
so much mystery on his face for nothing.” 

“Yes, yes, now for some news; Clement i3 right!” cried the 
courtiers, gathering ezgerly around the favorite Bonnivet as soon a 3 
he cam? up. 

“ Clement is right ! ” repeated the admiral. “ My friends, some- 
thing has happened — something neio — something to puzzle the witti- 
est arid the wisest ! An admirable thing — a laughable thing— a won- 
derful thing— a beautifil thing— a delicate thing— en verUt, a thing 
clearly incredible, inevitable, and impossible ! ” 


8 


THE - NEW WORLD. 


Francis 


“ Wnat 5 whatT what 1 ” was the eager exclamation »f all, as 
they gathered yet more closely around the speaker. “Quick, good 
Bormivet — out with it — we give it up ! ” 

“ Hush ; ” said the admiral, with a mysterious air of mock 
solemnity, placing his finger on his lip. “Come hither, Master 
Clement Marot — poet, page, priest, and so forth.” 

“And what would my lord admiral with me?” modestly asked 
the poet, malting his way through the throng to the spot where stood 
his good-humored summoner. 

“ Clement, my dear fellow', you are a great blockhead ! ” was the 
sober rejoinder. 

“Indeed, my lord admiral, you flatter my poor pretensions,” quietly 
replied Merot with a smile. “ I had never -been able to persuade 
myself that I was a great anything.” 

“In that poem of yours about the siege of Peshiere — a poor affair, 
you kno w — occur these lines about our excellent Triboulct: 

‘As wise at sixty, the wonderful fool, • 

As at his natal nour-’ 

You arc a ereat blockhead, Clement.” 

“ May Cupid disown me if I take ! ” exclaimed the puzzled poet. 
“Very like, very like,” replied Bonaivet. “Come hither, L’Es- 
parre, Tremouiile, Lautrec — ail ; I have something to telL” 

The courtiers formed a close circle around the admiral, and lis- 
tened with eager curiosity, their eyes glancing alternately from him 
to the poet. 

“Now, iny friends, pluck up your wit3 aRd guess,” continued 
the admiral. “A wonderful thing has happened to Triboulet. 
What 1 ” 

“ Has he got back his brains 1 ” asked L’Esparre. 

“ Has he been beheaded for hideousness ! ” asked La Tremouiile. 
“ Has he been knighted for gallantry 1” asked Latree. 

“ Has he been butchered by mistake for a hog, and served up baked 
for dinner ? ” asked Marot. 

“Neither, my friends, neither,” rejoined Bonnivet. “Something 
more entertaining. lie has — guess what he Inti? ” 

“An ape more hideous than himself I ” 

“No!” 

j “His pockets full of cash!” 

“No ! ” 

“ Bourbon's office — high constable ! ’ 

“ King's turnspit ! the dog ! ” 

“A soul, perhaps 1 ” 

“An assignation with the Virgin, r.o doubt 1 ” 

“No, no, no ! Ten to one on my riddle ! ” exciaimed the admi- 
ral. “ You are all wrong. Triboulet, the good, the amiable, the 
beautiful— he ias— try again— something marvellous!” 

“ His hunchback 1” 

“ His hunchbreast 1 ” 

“ Eyes 1 ” 

“ Nose 1 ” 

“ Mouth 1” 

“ Hands or feet 1 ” . 

“ A hundred to one, none of you can gucs3,” rejoined the admiral. 
“ Give it up. He has a — mistress ! ” 

• The shout of laughter which burst from the lips of all present at 
this strange avowal was loud andhearly, and seemingly inextinguish- 
able. Peal succeeded peal. The laughter ceased and was renewed 
— it died away, and again broke forth more violently than before. 
“Ah, capital!” cried Marot, struggling with hi3 convulsions. 

“ Excellent ! ” exclaimed L'Esparre. 

“O-i my word, gentlemen,” slid the admiral gravely— “I am 
serious ” Triboulet, th* jester, has a mistress. Moreover, she is 
yosno and lovely, and I can point you out the house in which he 
keeps her. Every dark night, at a late hour, he steals through the 
retired and deserted streets ta the place, enveloped in a huge old 
gray mantle— creeping along as sombre, and soft, and savage, as one 
of your troubadours, Clement, or yourself, to a ladye-love. I have 
Ion" kept an eye on Triboulet’s movements, and, roving about one 
dark night near the hotel Vendoxne, I got the first clew to the thing. 

It is a profound secret— remember ! 

“ Waat a theme for a rondeau ? ” said Marot laughing. Light 
metamorphoses the hunchback into a cupid. The fair would make 
a capita' mermaid : mulier formosa supemc, sed infra— Triboulet ! If 
English Suffolk should again march his Flemings into Picardy, there 
would be no chance for your gallantry a second time, Tremouiile : * 
Triboulet and his mistress would alone be sufficient to scare the 

scoundrel over the seas again. , 

it what say you, gentlemen, to a pleasant adventure on t.:e 
strength of my discovery 1 ” asked the admiral. “ Every one of us, 
Vou know, has some grudge against this hunchback buffoon 
Hitherto he has been safe in his folly and htdeousness-covered all 
over with them, indeed, as with armor, he has been penetrable at no 
one joint by any weapon in our possession. Tins discovery of mine 
renders the malicious dog invulnerable no longer. The countless 
insults of each of us can now be avenged. At midnight, let us all 
meet at the head of the Cul de-sac, near the hotel Vendome. Until 
then not a syllable.” * 

“ Good ! ” cried Marot. “ I comprehend. 

“ Is it agreed 1 ” asked the admirai. 

“ Agreed ! ” exclaimed all. 


‘ Hush ! ” said Bonnive. “ There comes the kir g with Triboulet- 
Cupid — drunk as Bacchus both ! ” 

CHAPTER III.. ..THE FATHER OF LETTERS. 

’Tis true I am a king: 

Honor and "lory, too, taie been my aim ; 

But, though I dare (ace death and all the dangers 
Which furious war weaves in its hloody front, 

Yet could l choose to fix my name by peace, 

By justice, and by mercy; and to raise 

My trophies on the blessings of mankind. Rowe. 


* Anachronism. 


“Savans at court!” exclaimed Triboulet, upon whose arm was 
leaning his royal master, more than half intoxicated, as the admirai 
had said, as they entered the saloon. “ What a monstrous notion is 
that, cousin Franeis!” 

“ I wish to heaven you could make my fair sister Margaret thick 
so !” repied the king. “ She plagues my life out of me with her 
entreaties that I should patronize learned men, and make myself, as 
she calls it, ‘The Father of Letters!’ A nice father of letters I’d 
make ! Ye3, in sooth, she is more than half in earnest in her solici- 
tations, I do believe, absurd as you think them ; and I am mere. th#:i 
half persuaded to yield, that I may be rid of them, if nothing 

“Be that as it may, cousin Francis,” returned the jester, “ thetp 
is one thing, which; between ourselves, just at this present, you wlu 
admit; k is, that I am less drunk to-night than you are. Well, sire^ 
that granted, it follows that I possess one great advantage in judging 
of these matters which you do not — nay, now I think of it, I behevi 
I may claim two advantages — I am not so typsy as you, and I am 
not a king. Well, -with these capacities for a notable judgment, my 
decision is, that, sooner than these savans of your sister Margaret’s, 
your court had better receive a visitation from war, pestilence and 
1 famine !” 

“ Methinks your advice is a trifle bold, Triboulet. Besides, as I 
said, Margaret is evidently serious in r.er wish. ‘Frascis,’ said she 
to me this very night, in a low tone in the midst of the festivities, 
‘Francis, fair womeg will not always suffice you for happiness, 
when the flush of youth has passed away and you are wearied.’ ” 

“ Unheard of antidote !” interrupted the jester. “ Savans a remedy 
for ennui ! But Margaret sf Angouieme has such a sweet, amia- 
ole disposition, that it is her very nature to uphold these who are too 
feeble to uphold themselves. Besides, the beautiful duchess evidently 
has a taste and genius for these things to which you, cousin Francis, 
can lay no pretension — ‘Father of letters’ though you are to be! 
Witness her brilliant poems ‘Marguerites de la Marguerite ucs Prin- 
cesses,’ her ‘ Mirror of a Sinning Soul ,’ the pious Huguenot, not to 
mention her ‘Hrptameron, or Seven days' Talcs,’ not quite so pious, 
unless we concede the same quality to those of your favorite Italian, 
Boccacio, which those do much resemble.” . 

“Well, well,” impatiently answered the young monarch ; “I 
know all this. Margaret of Valois is brilliant as she is beautiful ; 
and so unlike her unworthy brother, that he ha* r given her up as an 
enigma long ago, much as he loves and values her. How the sqjn<? 
Huguenot pen could have indicted the B.ble mysteries and that gay 
thing, the “ Heptameron,” is beyond my comprehension ; and how 
to get cut of her this fancy about divines, savans, and the like, is 
equally so.” 

“ Better send Clement to her,” suggested the bufToon, with a smile 
of peculiar meaning. “ The handsome troubadcur i3 said to pos- 
sess no ordinary influence over the beautiful widow, notwithstanding 
the presence of the young monarch of Navarre.” 

Francis slightly colored, and bit his lip. He knew that the hot 
blood cf Valois rolled in his sister’s veins as well as in his own, and 
that there had been indications in her behavior, notwithstanding her 
| character for piety, and her betrothal to the gailant Henry d’Albert, 
that she was not insensible to the fascinations of her yeueg and 
admired page. 

“ Well, Triboulet, well,” rejoined the king, after a slight pause, 

“ if we are to have no men of learning, let us, at least, have half-a- 
dozen poets, since they seem in such fair acceptation. I confess, 
my own taste leans rather to them, of the two.” 

“ Sire — sire — in mercy! indeed, my good cousin.” exclaimed the 
[jester, in a ludicrous affectation of alarm, “ inflict not thi3 fearful 
; shower upon us of rhyme-writers, everlastingly pouring forth their 
licensed nonsense ! Beelzebub dreads not holy-water as 1 should 
! dread them!” 

“ But, five or six, Triboulet, only five or six” — 

“An army — a mob— a menagerie ! Have we not enough of ele- 
ment there,’’ contined the jester, elevating his voice so as to be 
heard by Marot, “ have we not enough of his trash, in all conscience, 
without poisoning ourselves with more cf these locust3, yclepeda, 
poets'!” > J 

| As the group of courtiers, as well as the poet, heard this sally cF 
the jester’s ; there wa3 a smile on their lips, and Marot slightly 
colored. 

“ No, no,” continued the buffoon. “ The women, sire, ike women 
— ah, there is the only heaven on earth for one of your tempera- 
ment ; and what need you more ; I prythee, cousin Francis, trouble 
us no more with your tipsy visions of savans, much less a mob of 
i poets to craze us all with their romantic rhyming nonsense.” 
j, “ Peace, fool !” exclaimied the king, petulantly. “ I tell you on 
the word of a gentleman cf France, that I care more far one soft 
glance of a certain dark eye, than for ail the doctors there are in 
, Germany, or all the troubadours there are la Provence. But. I say. 


THE NEW WORLD. 


9 


Of VALors. 


Triboulet, that crowd of coxcombs, yonder, is abusing you. See 
them glance at you and laugh ; they look rather savage, too.” 

The jester listened quietly and attentively for a moment, and then 
turned back to the king. 

“ Was I not correct, old fellow !” 

“ No, sire,” calmly replied the buffoon; “ they are abusing another 
fool — a greater one.” 

“ Impossible ! Whom, pray V* 

“The king!” «... 

“ Ha ! What say they I 

“ They say that you are partial, and Lestow all your favors on 
Navarre and not on France.” 

, “Excellent!” exclaimed the king, laughing. “Let me see: 
Montcltenu, Bourbon, Latrec ; one I have made marshal, the second 
high constable, and the other, Montchenu, master of m.y hotel. In 
the name of reaspa, what would they have more. 1” 

“Justice, sire, justice!” replied the jsster.loud enough to be heard 
by all of whom he was speaking. “ There is one other service which 
you can do for them which they each and all abundantly merit.” 

“ Ha ! what is that 1” 

“ Hang them, sire, hang them !” 

The king burst into a loud laugh, and the courtiers exchanged 
glances of rage and mortification. 

“ But not to waste more words on these trivial matters,” continued 
the jester, “ let us return to love and woman. You should at times, 
sire, for the sake of novelty, put to the test your fascinations with 
women, as a man. Oh' it must be delightful to hear the lip murmur 
‘No,’’ while the eye far more eloquently says ‘ Yes !’ To be loved 
by a heart that is dazzled, is not to be loved at all — it is the admira- 
tion of an eye that is blindfold.” 

“ Ha ! think you thus, Triboulet ?” wa3 the quick reply. “ Do 
you know, then, that there is one woman in the world whom I truly 
hope, and verily believe loves me for myself — loves Francis , not the 
king 1” 

“A bourgeoise, of course 1” remarked the jester. 

“ Why not 1” V' 

“Beware, cousin.Francis, beware!”said the jester gravely. “A 
bourgeoise ! Psrilous^Usiness this ! The bourgeoise are perfect Romans 
in these matters. If one touches their chattels, the mark sticks to 
their hands ineffaceably. No — no, Francis, let us be content, fools 
and kings that we are, with the wives, sisters, and daughters of our 
right honorable gentlemen of France.” 

At this moment a tumult was heard at one of the entrances, and a 
voice was heard above the confusion, exclaiming, 

“I must see the king! 1 must speak with the king !” 

“Ah. this aWiY.be pleasant!” cried the jester, as the crowd sepa- 
.raTerf^'c vwogjjftjp.ir in deep mourning came forward. “ Now for 
a scene ! It is Samt Valliar !” 

• -TV 

CHAPTER IV. THE CURSE. 

Ruin seize tliee, ruthless king! 

Confasion on thy banners wait, 

Though fann’d by conquest’s crimson wing, 

They mock the air with idle state. the bard. < 

“Awnke! iwake ! 

Great though thou art, awake thee from the dream 
Tuat earth was made for kings— mankind for slaughter— 

Women for lu<t — the people for the palace! 

Dark warnings have gone forth.” 

“Francis of Valois, hear me !” said the old man in a deep voice, 
as he stood before the monarch, and fixed on his countenance astern 
and steady eye. 

The courtiers receded in astonishment, and the pair stood alone 
face to face, confronting each other in the midst. 

As the first tones of Saint Valliar’s voice had fallen on the ear of 
Francis, he started and changed color, and was about refusing an 
audience. He seemed, however, as rapidly to have aitered his deter- 
mination as it was formed. Folding his arms firmly upon his breast, 
he stood in the attitude of one who yields a respectful hearing to an 
unpleasant truth, which it is impossible for him to avoid. His cheek 
ancl brow were deadly pale, though his dark eye was bright and his 
lip was firm. 

“ Francis of Valois, hear me ! It is now nearly three months 
since, by your sentence, I stood upon the scaffold. At a moment 
when I was awaiting only the stroke of the headsman, was your 
royal pardon placed in my hands. I was as one called back from 
another world, I stood as in a dream, and I bade God bless you ! 
But ah, I knew not — I knew not what I said ! I knew not, then, the 
deep, the damning dishonor which to me that royal parchment con- 
veyed ! I knew not, alas ! that, instead of a blessing, that clemency 
called only for the deepest curse ! Yes, sire, at the very moment 
when I, a gray-haired man was retracing my way with feeble steps 
from the =caffold, and in my soul was imploring the God of Victory 
that all the remaining days of your career might be days only of 
glory, you, Francis of Valois, regardless of the pure blood of Poic- 
tiers, noble for centuries, regardless of every tie of duty, virtue, jus- 
tice, honor; without fear, without compassion, without shame, ay, 
withoutsven that long-restrained but irrepressible’passion, which may 
sometimes almost palliate crime ; you, sire, in this your magnificent 
Louvre, the splendid sepulchre of wo-man’s purity, were triumphing 
over the honor of my innocent daughter — the chaste as lovely Disina 
of Poictiers, the Countess of Breze ! To me, her aged father, by 
her so dearly loved, was conveyed the sentence to a violent death ; 
and, at that same hour, was the daughter borne by the power of 


jravnishers to this infamous pile ; and then, did he, the violator — this 
Franeis ef Valois — this Duke of Milan and Lord of Genoa — this 
monarch of France — this flower of chivalry, a knight of the Acco- 
lade of Bayard; then, did this man, with the axe fuspended, day 
after day — for 1 know not how long — over his victim’s head, descend 
so low as to barter for a daughter’s honor with a father's life ! One 
morning at sunrise there stood in the grive a scaffold, which, ere 
that sun had set was to be the destined bed of dishonor to the 
daughter, or the block cf.execution to the father ! Just God ! where 
then slept thy bolts of retribution, when that same scaffold presented 
to thine all-seeing eye the impious mockery of a royal form, robed 
in tha hallowed garb of clemency, dripping with the pollution of 
licentious violence ! 

“ Son of Orleans, in doing thi3 thing, you have not done well ! 
Had the blood of an aged soldier crimsoned the scaffold, the deed 
might have seemed just. The old man, perchance, had merited his 
fate — loyal though he might be, and noble, though for centuries had 
been his ancestry. But, when, instead of this old man, you seized 
his only child, and, in violation of every principle of royalty and 
honor, trampled the chastity of a weeping and terrified girl in triumph 
under your feet — sire, you did then an impious, infamous thing, for 
which, if there be not here, there must be strict aceount hereafter. 

“By this deed, you have transcended even the broad prerogative of 
a monarch of France. The father was yours — the daughter was not. 
To the father you have given a pardon for an imputed crime — the 
thing is called a pardon ! a blessing ; and he is an ungrateful man, I 
suppose, because he can only deem it the darkest of curses : and, 
frem the daughter you ravished, as the price, that, which to father 
and to daughter, was infinitely beyond all price ! Oh, sire, why 
came you not — why came yon not then to my dungeon, and, extend- 
ing my daughter’s honor in one hand, proffered me my life with the 
other 1 That, though despotic, would have borne some faint resem- 
blance t« justice. And then would I have implored you — ‘ give to 
me the mercy of death! Mercy for my spotless child ! Mercy for 
my ancient and unstained name ! Death for me ! The scaffold, not 
the disgrace ! Take the life, but, oh stamp not infamy on the brow — 
misery on the heart!’ I would have said that, sire; and, on the 
night of that day, my pure Diana would have bowed her sweet face 
above my mutilated form, and, in peace and in honor, would have 
: offered up her supplications fer the soul of her sacrificed father. 

“ Soil of Orleans, I come not here to demand back my unhappy 
child, she is nothing now to me. Never more can she be daughter 
of mine. She is lost ! She is as dead to me as if the marble of her 
ancestral tomb had closed over her. When once honor is gone, 
nothing worthy of estimate remains. She may love — she may hate 
you— she may be indiflerent to you. It matters not. When courage 
in man, or chastity in woman, is gone, what else can there be in 
either which we may deem vile enough for denunciation ? Every 
subsequent crime seems, in the comparison, only a virtue, and is lost 
in the deep darkness of the primal dereliction. Keep her, then, or 
^discard her — it is all one to m«. 

“ For myself, I have thought proper to come hither to recall to 
you the memory of my wrongs, in this hour of your revel and fes- 
tivity. It is my first coming — it is not my last. No, Francis of 
Valois! until that final hour when some father, brother, huiband — ah, 
it will be so ! shall have avenged, with one blow, the wrongs, the 
insults, the agonies of hundreds — until the red bolt of Heaven’s retri- 
bution shall have been sped — pale and tottering shall I bring these 
grizzled hairs to your festive board, and shall say to you : ‘ Son of 
Orleans, you have done ill ! you have done ill !’ Ay, and you will 
give ear to me, even as you now do ; and you will have no power 
to turn away your pallid front until my mission shall have been 
accomplished. Nay, sire, move not! Would you silence my ven- 
geance by violence 1 Would you again yield me to the headsman I 
Would you smother these accursing lips in the midnight of your 
dungeons ! Francis of Valois, you dart not ! you dare not disembody 
this agonized spirit ! you would dread, that, in the still night-watches, 
my gory spectre should stand beside yourcsuch and shriek into your 
tortured ear those maledictions which fall now so terribly from living 
lips! Francis of Valois, I am done. Upon you rests an old man’s 
curse T’j 

On this scene gazed the assembled courliers in terror and dismay. 
They seemed stricken speechless and motionless at the audacity of 
the injured old man. The observations, “ He is mad !” “ Why is he 
not seized 1” ran, indeed, in hurried and stifled whispers around the 
circle when he had concluded ; but no hand was extended to arrest 
him. His grief and his wrongs seemed to consecrate him. The 
king stood silent and still — motionles, almost breathless, and pallid 
as marble, until the last syllable of the old noble's malediction had 
fallen from his lips. He then raised his head and advacing a step 
with his eye upon his accuser, seemed about to rejoin. 

“ Nay, cousin Francis, stay !” exclaimed the Buffoon Triboulet, 
waving his sceptre of wood, “ it is my prerogative to rule in matters 
like this. Do you not perceive that this goed old fellow is a fool, 
like myself ! You cannot think of joining issue with a fool ! Let a 
fool prate to a fool ! Permit me — even Triboulet, the court jester, 
to harrangue, in reply to this everlasting speech which has been 
forced on us — a most lugubrious as well as a most ludicrous affair, 
all will admit.” 

Then advancing with an air of mock solemnity to Saint Valliar, he 
'continued : 

i “ My lord, we must be somewhat brief with you. It was deemed 


10 


THE NEW WORLD. 


Francis 


proper by you to enter into a conspiracy against our crown. \ ou 
were detected, convicted, and sentenced to die. We, in our royal 
clemency, thought fit to pardon this crime; whereupon your fair 
daughter, the most adorable Diana of Poicliers, thought proper toj 
feel grateful to us, and to prefer the love of our unworthy self to 
that of her legitimate lord, the right honorable and most valiant Count 
of Breze, who chances to be gifted with a hump before, like our illus- 
trious self. For all which pardons from us' to you and yours, it be- 
cometh you, as a leal subject, to do U3 your most humble devoir, 
instead of inflicting your late wrathful tirade !” 

Saint Valliar looked at the king during this unworthy assault, as if 
claiming, as a right, his interference. None, however, was offered 
“ One insult more !” exclaimed the old noble, when the jester 
ceased his taunts. “Ah, Francis, i3 this well done 1 you have listened 
to me in silence, as you ought ; you, with all your vice3, you are yet 
a king; but is it well upon an expiring lion to let loose a yelping 
hound 1 Have not I the right to be treated by you as majesty by 
majesty 1 You are a monarch — I am an aged man, and uwij'a father 
We have each that crown upon the brow to which none should raise 
an insolent glance : you the regalia of France — I these withered hairs 
King ! when treason dares insult your crown, it is royalty that 
avenges! It is God who will avenge the sacrilege of this night to 
mine !” 

Then turning to the jester, who quailed beneath his stern, cold 
glance, he continued : 

“And you, who with venomed tongue have this night mocked the 
wretchedness of a miserable old man — that old man's curse be on 
you /” 

CHAPTER. V THE BOHEMIAN. 

-.-err-v — • * ' 

What a pestilent knave is this same?— Shakspere. 

Then have at you with my wit; I will dry -beat you with an iron wit, and put 
up my iron dagger. — I b. j 

Has this fellow ne feeling of his business ? — Hamlet, Act V. 

This fellow, methinks, hath no drowning mark upon him: his complexion is per- 
feet gallows.— T empest. 

Lv a secluded corner of the Cul-dc-Sac, or Place Vendome, stood 
a low dwelling of humble aspect. It was surrounded by a high wall 
cf brick, above which could be seen the tops of numerous trees, by 
which it was environed. So tall, indeed, was the wall, and so dense 
was the foliage of the trees, that the mansion itself would hardly have 
been observed by the passenger below, had it not been for a broad 
gallery, or terrace, which ran along the entire length of the edifice, 
spreading out from the windows of the second story to the summit of 
the wall. Upon this rested the external edge of the terrace, protected 
by a low and heavy ballustrade of stone-work ; and over the whole 
was suspended the ponderous branches of the ancient trees. With 
this gallery communicated the second floor of the dwelling, by means 
of a door, as well as the garden below, by means of a broad flight of 
stairs, although this latter was, of course, to be viewed only from 
within. A person inside the wail would also have observed numer- 
ous seats of turf and of stone beneath the large trees, as well as seclu- 
ded alcoves, and beds of rare flowers, and trellises buried in vines. 

On the opposite side of the place, or lane, ran a high wall, similar 
to that described, above which rose the stately roofs of the Hotel 
Vendeme embowered in tree3. Beyond could be caught, against the 
western sky, the sharp profile of roofs innumerable : and, conspicu- 
ous among the coufused mass stood out the ponderous towers of St. 
Severin, whose heavy bell was even then pealing forth the curfew 
hour. 

The shadows of night were gathering rapidly over the city of Paris; 
but enough of departing daylight yet remained, to enable a close ob- 
server to perceive the figure of a man cautiously stealing up the lane 
beneath the wall, closely enveloped in a mantle. From time to time, 
as he glided lightly but rapidly along, he paused to look back, and to 
listen if he were pursued. At length he reached a low door in the 
wall ; and, withdrawing a key from his bosom, he was about apply- 
ing it to the lock, when a step arrested his movements. He turned ; 
th* tall and muscular figure of a man, covered with an immense gray 
cape, or cloak, who had stood concealed, as if in waiting, beneath 
the shadow of the opposite wall, strode directly across the passage. 

“ Good even to ye, sir!” was his salutation, in a deep and sono- 
rous tone. 

The first comer turned, and seemed busily examining the state of 
his pockets. 

“I have nothing for you,” he said, after a moment’s investigation 

“ I ask nothing, sir,” was the quick reply. “ Pshaw ! sir, did you 
mistake me for a mendicant 1” - 

“ Well — had I no cause 1 Leave me !” rejoined the first. 

“You judge me ill, sir. I am no beggar. I am a man s-f the 
sword,” said he of the cape, somewhat haughtily. “ But, to business,” 
continued he, approaching his companion, and lowering his tone. 
“For Eome months past, sir, I have observed you wandering, nearly 
every dark night, up this lane, with the stealthy air of a man engaged 
in an intrigue of love, or of hatred. Am I right I Am I wrong ?” 

The man in the mantle started at these abrupt interrogatories, so 
unceremoniously administered. But, resuming his self-possession at 
once, he answered, “ Well, suppose you are right, what is it to you 1” 

“ It is more to yourself than to me,” was the reply. “ I meddle 
with your affairs more for your advantage than for my own. If you 
knew me better, sir, you would treat me more civilly. Is it impos- 
sible that your lady-love has a lover 1 Are you never jealous 1” 


“ Well, well,” interrupted the first, impatiently, “ what does all 
this mean ? What would you propose ? Be brief !” 

“Simply this,” was the reply, in a low, soft tone : “ For a consid- 
eration, thi3 rival shall cross your path no more.” 

“ Ah, I understand !” 

“ You perceive, sir, that I am an honest fellow, after all 1” 

“Very !” 

“ And, that if I dog your steps, it is for the best of purposes 1” 

“ A valuable man, certainly !’ 

“ The guardian of the honor of all the ladies of Paris — nothing 
more,” was the modest rejoinder. 

“ And what is your mode of operation — how do you dispatch a 
ruffling gallant 1” asked the first. 

“ Oh, that depends more on the gallant himself than on me, and 
the skill with which he wields his weapon.” 

“ Well, to dispatch a great Lord 1” 

“Ah, the deuce !” said the man ; “ one runs the risk of finding a 
sword through his own lungs, before he knows it, in attacking such 
gentry ! They are always armed. One perils his life. A great 
Lord is expensive.” 

“ A great Lord is expensive ! Is it possible that the Bourgeois 
ever engage your services I 

“Not often,” replied the man, smiling. “They do these littl* 
matters for themselves — they can’t afford to hire. But, among peo- 
ple well-born, there is generally a certain pride in SHch affairs — very 
foolish, too, it seems to me. To be sure, some low fellows, who 
gi.ve themselves the airs of gentlemen, come to me, at times, for 
service ; but, be sure of it, sir, I make them pay well — half in ad- 
vance, and half when the deed is done.” 

“ But, are you not aware — of course you must be — that you risk 
the gibbet — the penalty for — ” 

“ Oh, no !” interrupted the man smiliDg — “ not quite so bad ! Our 
profession pays heavy tribute to the Police of Paris — so many crown3 
a head.” 

“ An excellent arrangement, truly, and well worthy of your hon- 
orably craft. But how get you your prey into your clutches V 1 
“ Why, very easily ; thus : I dispatch him at his own house in the 
city, or across the Seine at mine, as my patron may desire. Again, 
the business is sometimes accomplished in the streets of Paris. For 
this kind of work, I wear a keen cut-and-thrust-sword, and I dodge 
the man about until — ” 

“Well, at your own house, howl” interrupted the man in the 
mantle. . 

“ I have a sister, sir — a beautiful girl — her name i3 Madeleine. 
She dances like a sylph and talks like a poet, and,# il, is 50 be- 
witching, that it is no difficult matter for her ... 

has seen her once desire to see her again; and the;?/ 0 dizbaret o>, 
the Seine — ” 

“ Ah, I comprehend — a perfect Calypso, no doubt.” 

“ All thi3 is accomplished, you see, without tumult or disturbance,' 
in the most discreet and decent manner possible. Give me your 
custom, my good sir — give me your custom — and be sure of it, you 
shall not be dissatisfied. I am a gentleman, sir — I keep no Bagnio — 

I never break the king’s peace : above all, I am not one of your dag- 
ger-gentry — bandits, bravoes, and brawlers — who charge ten crowns 
for a life, and whose skill is as slight, and their courage as short, as 
the weapon they wear. There’s my instrument, sir,” continued the 
man, raising his cloak and very complacently displaying the Tull 
length of a most formidable rapier. “ It is at your service, sir !” 

“Thank you!” replied his companion, recoiling from the tre- 
mendous weapon. “ I have no necessity f®r such service at present.” 

“ So much the worse for me,” said the man, coolly thrusting back 
the rapier into its sheath : “And, so much the better for your purse, 
and your particular friends, whoever they may chance to be. When 
you do wish for my services, however, I may be found any day, at 
noon, promenading before the Hotel du Maine. My name is Saltabadil.” 
“ A Bohemian 1” 

“Yes, and a Burgundian,” said the man. “ I pray you, think a3 
well oi me as you can.” 

“ Oh certainly,” rejoined the other. “ Every man must have some 
means of support, I suppose ; and, on the whole, I am not sure that 
yours is much w T orse than that of some others.” 

“ The meanest of all callings, in my opinion,” said the man, “ is 
to beg — to be a mendicant, a rogue ! I have four daughters at home 
and a wife, their mother. They, of course, know nothing of my 
deeds — they know not whence comes the bread they eet, or h'ow it is 
earned. My wife and eldest daughter are noted for their piety. I 
am determined my children shall be reared well.” 

“Oh, no doubt !” was the significant response. “Good night, 
Saltabadil!” 

“ Adicusius, I am your servitor for life!” said theBohemian, de- 
parting. 

“ My servitor for life 1” said he— “ oh, yes, until some one is fool 
enough to hire him to shorten it ! And yet, strarge enough, I like 
that man !” soliloquized the individual w ho was left. “ I like him 
because he is like me. He has my sympathy. Yes, we, have both 
of us the hatred of our kind, and both of us the self-same pride of 
soul, under the self same base exterior. A sharp tongue— a sharp 
rapier ! I am the wit — he the assassin. I the man who laughs — he 
the man who murders. Our weapons are marvellously different, yet 
marvellously alike. The wounds they inflict are equally pauafui, 
if not equally fatal. Strange !” 


Of Valois. 


THE NEW WORLD 


11 


CHAPTER VI.— THE BUFFOON. 

Remorse— - lie ne'er forsakesus; 

A bloodhound stanch, she tracks oar weary step.— Coleridge. 

I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion. 

Cheated o: feature by dissembling nature, | 

Deform’d, unfinlsh’d, sent betore my time 
Into this breathing world, scarce hail made up, 

And that so lamely and unfadiionably, • j 

That dogs bark at me, asl halt by them. — R ichard III, Act I. 

For a few moments, he mused and smiled ; then looking cau- 
tiously around him, he advanced toward the door in the wall. After 
again looking carefully on every side, he produced a key and placed 
it in the lock. The door opened inwardly, without noise. The 
man entered the garden, closed the door and bolted it, and walked 
slowly and thoughtfully on, 

“ Thal^ntl man cursed me !” he murmured. “ Yes, he raised his, 
palsied hand, and said, ‘An old man's curse be on you /’ And I de-l 
rided his wretchedness ! Oh, infamous! I ridiculed the misery ofi 
a poor old man, bereaved so cruelly of his own child ! And yet, how j 
strangely, all the while, trembled my heart within me! Was it 
presentiment !’* _ j 

The court-je3ter, for it was no other, seated himself on a bench 
of stone beneath the deep shadow of a tree, and bowed his head 
upon his knees. 

“Yes! that old man cursed me! What a corrupt, cruel, cow- 
ardly creature have mankind and destiny made me ! I am a bad 
man ; but have I made myself all that I am 1 Oh, misery ! to be a : 
buffoon — to be a biurppback cripple ! Even this withering thought, 
whether I sleep or **ake, or when, in day-dreams, I have glided in 
spirit over the earth — falls back upon my soul — ‘ You are a de- 
formed jester for the court! .You can have no will, no power, no 
light, but to laugh when you are bid, and to cause others to do the 
same!’ What a depth of wretchedness and degradation ! What! 
that which the common soldiery, ruled by a rag which they call a 
standard, and which, for their lives, they dare not for one hour 
desert, possess — that which remains, even after all else is gone, to 
the Spanish mendicant, to the slave of Tunis, to the victim of the 
gallies, to the condemned in his dungeon, to every man here below 
who still breathes and eats — the right to weep and the right to be 
Bilent — these rights — these alas ! I have not ! 

“Sad and moody of disposition — with a body diseased and 
deformed — filled with disgust at my own destiny — tortured with 
envy and jealousy of power or of beauty, in man or in animal — sur- 
rounded by magnificence which' only contrasts my own misery — at 
times, savage, sorrowful, and desolate, I seek a retired corner 
where I may be alone. In the midst of this loneliness and misery, 
cemes my * er to seek me out — my light headed, joyous master — 

’ ' - sa- d V: ; i»n, respec'ed of men — contented with existence — 
jjSS^^ove, handso.ae, brilliant — the monarch of France ! Toueh- 
ing'ine with his foot, as I sit sad and disconsolate in my seclusion, 
he exclaims with a yawn — ‘Come, Triboulet, come — make some 
sport for us ! Why, the poor fool is as melancholy as a cat in love, 
to be sure ! He is then a man. after all ! ’ 

“ And, then, the hell of conflicting passions which rage in my j 
soul ! the rancor, the scorn, the disdain, the wrath, the envy, the 
fury of which my breast is full — the everlasting meditation of some j 
hideous design, all the legion of midnight thoughts that gnaw my 
vitals — upon a siegle nod from my royal master they must at once be 
smothered ; and, for whatsoever coxcomb may wish it, I am forced 
to make instant merriment ! Oh, wretch — abject — degraded ! Let 
him walk, stand, sit, rise, evermore does the corroding chain cling 
to him and waste away his energies ! Despised, hated of man; dis- 
regarded, humiliated of woman ! 

“ The queen, beautiful creature — the young, and lovely Claude, 
on whose charms not even a brute could look with coldness, permits 
this wretch to lie about in her very bed-chamber, even as a dog; 
and, with her voluptuous person half unrobed, she starts, all at once, 
gives a single glance, then says : ‘N importe, it is only Triboulet ! 
He is harmless! * 

“ Ah, harmless! think you thus, my fine cavaliers 1 my right noble 
jailers 1 Does not the fool full often recompense all your derision 1 ! 
If he is a reptile, do you never feel his sting I Does he never fling! 
back on. you scorn so cutting, that you writhe with rage, and shame, 
and wrath 1 Is he not an evil genius, ever at the ear of his master 
and your’s 1 Oh, it is a merry, merry thing to scatter to the winds 
their cunningly-devised schemes — their well-plotte *1 purposes ! They 
have mads me mad, and is it more than meet that I should make 
them miserable 1 

“And, yet, what agony is there in all this! The wretchedness I 
create, I feel myself more keenly than can my victim. To dash ’ 
with wormwood the wine which makes men glad — to crush every | 
gcod instinct — to stifle every kindly feeling — to dissipate every worthy j 
pai4pse — to distract with my bauble and bells the brain that would 
meditate — to lure on the youthful to ruin — to deceive the unthink- 
ing — to rove about, day after day, night after night, through these 
glittering festivities, which, to me, are but a magnificent mockery — 
lo demolish the happiness of the happy — to have no aim, no hope, 
no desire, no ambition in life, but to create mischief and misery — to ; 
make others as misvrable as myself — and more than all, ever to bear I 
about with me, like a livid corse, m my bosom everywhere, asso- 
ciated with everything — yet guarded, concealed, buried beneath a 
mocking laugh, an old native ineradicable and bitter hatred of all — ! 
all my race ! 


“ But here — what matters all this here 1 Once through that gate 
j arid I am another being. Let me forget, though but for an hour,, 
the dark and the wicked world I have left behind. Here I should 
! bring nothing of all the miseries without. 

V* That oid min cursed me ! ” continued the jester, after a 
moment of abstracted musing. “Yes, he cursed me ! Why — why 
comes ever thus that remembrance back upon me, even like a 
j ghastly spectre, chase it from me us often as I may ! What maledic- 
tion can curse me? Am I not a fool? Away ! I will think of it 
no more ! No earthly curse can make me more cursed than I already 
am. I am too truly and utterly a wretch, to be affected by the mali- 
son, or thebenisenof man — I had almost said of God himself! From 
my birth have I been plunged into the dark waters of wretchedness, 
until I am now invulnerable to every arrow sped by a human hand. 
My only tie to existence is here.” 

He advances to the house — he knocks — the door opens — and a 
young and beautiful girl in a loose white robe leaps joyously into his 
| extended arms ! 

CHAPTER VII.... BLANCHE. 

Tliou hast the sweetest face I ever look’d on.— K ing Henry VIII. 

Oh, she is fair! 

As fair as Heaven to look upon ! As fair 
As ever vision of the Virgin blest 
That weary pilgrim, resting by the fount, 

Beneath the palin, and dreaming to the tune 
Of flowing waters, duped his soul withal. 

Philip Van Artevkl»e. 
The chariest maid is prodigal enough, 

If she unmask her beauty to the moon.— H amlet. 

The youeg girl by whom the jester was so affectionately received, 
seemed not to have exceeded her eighteenth year. She was not tall, 
i but her figure was exquisitely moulded, and, young as she was, its 
| rich and rounded tournure — its graceful curves — ifs perfect develop- 
Iments, displayed all the seductive proportions of woman in the 
maturity of her charms. The dreamy languor which floated in her 
light hazel eye well corresponded with such a form, and with the 
full and impassioned lip. Her forehead was clear and open — the 
bright brown hair, simply parted in the middle, was carried down 
each temple over the delicate ear, and gathered in a graceful mass 
low behind. The complexion was fair — perhaps too fair — but the 
cheek and chin were rounded, and the throat and bust were perfect. 
The erect carriage of the figure and the graceful bearing of the head, 
were as striking for the air of quiet dignity with which they invested 
one so young, as was the serious and thoughtful expression of the 
features — that expression which unerringly indicates an impassioned 
nature ; for, deep feeling is always sad— never joyous ; often seem- 
ingly cold in its demonstrations. Yet, at times, when a smile would 
curl that full soft lip, and light up the depths of that calm melancholy 
eye, how pure was that illuming which chased away all coldness 
and sadness, though but lor an instant, from that pale face — even 
| as the vase of alabaster is illumed by the sudden light of a lamp 
within ' 

It will not be understood, that all these peculiarities of form and of 
feature were observable during the moment that the fair girl stood 
in the lamp-light at the door, ere she was clasped in the arms of the 
old man. No, there was hardly time for that ! 

“ My daughter ! my beautiful daughter ! ” exclaimed the jester, 
clasping her with transport to his bosom. “ Oh, place those white 
arms around my neck — around my heart ! Near thee, again life 
smiles on me, and is precious : nothing pains me longer. Oh, my 
child, I am happy — once more the mountain is raised from my 
breast — once more I breathe ff-oe ! ” 

The old man released his child a moment from kis arms, and, 
retreating a step, ran his.eye eagerly over her charms. 

“More beautiful every day!” he murmured. “And you are 
happy, Blanche'? you want for nothing! you wish for nothing'! 
Embrace me, dear ! Now tell me you are happy.” 

“How good you always are, my father,” replied the soft silvery 
accents of Blanche. “ No one else is so kind to me as you are.” 

“1 only love thee, that is all, my innocent child,” said the father, 
j seating her beside him on one of the benches of the gardeu. “No 
one loves thee as I do. Are you not ray life! my very blood and 
being ! If 1 had not thee — oh, my God ! if I haB not thee, how could 
1 1 continue to exist ! ” 

“ You sigh, my father : you are agitated,” said Blanche, laying 
her little white hand upon the rough forehead of the buffoon, and 
gazing upon his disturbed features with innocent surprise. “ Some 
secret trouble, is it not! Tell your poor simple daughter, that she 
may share your griefs. Alas! I know not even whom to call y ou — 

[ knew not your name !” 

“And what matters that, my Blanche ! Love you me not as dearly 
j as if you did know my name 1 ” 

“ Yes, my father, oh yes ! But, excepting Blanche, I know not 
my own name. Our neighbors in the little hamlet of Chinon, where 
I was reared, believed me an orphan, until you came for me.” 

“ Ah, I should have left you there ! ” said the jester, quickly. 
“It would have been more prudent. But how could I live without 
thee, my daughter! Oh, I had need of thee — need of one heart in 
the wide, cold world to l»ve me!” 

“ If you wish me not to ask your name my father ” 

“ Blanche — Blanch?!” interrupted the old man, “never go out 
into the streets of this city, except to church.” 

“ I have now been in Paris three months, and I have been but eigkt 


12 


THE NEW WORLD. 


Francis 


times to Notre Dame,” was the meek response. “ But, my father,! 
if you wish not to tell me c-f yourself, tell me something at least of t 
my mother.” 

“ Thy mother, child — ah, thy mother ! you little know the feel- 
ings which that question awakens. You recall that, which often 
seem3 to me, and which were you not before my eyes, would now! 
seem to me, only the memory of a heavenly vision ! Thy mother, 
Blanche, was a woman far different from mest of her sex. She had 
a soul ! She saw me, lonely, infirm, poor, unhappy, diseased, des- j 
pised : and, wonderful to tell ! she loved me for my very wretched- j 
ness ! She could have loved and pitied me for nothing else. She is | 
dead now — she has gone to the tomb, bearing in her bosom the 
sacred secret of her youthful love — a love which poured over my 
spirit a flood of heaven’s brightness, lighting up its midnight of des- 
pair. Light be the earth on that gentle bosom which so long pil- 
lowed a weary head ! And now, my Blanche, you are my all in the 
world.” 

There was a pause of some moments, and the jester covered his 
face with his hands and wept. 

“My father — my father, you are very unhappy,” said Blanche, 
throwing her arms around his neck ; “ you seem always unhappy — 
why is this 1 Oh, you should have no concealments from your daugh- 
ter ! Why do you weep 1” 

“And what, Blanche, would you say, were you to see me always 
laughing 1” 

“I could form no idea of that. But something does trouble you, 
my father. Tell ms your name — confide your sorrows to me — pour 
all your griefs into my bosom !” 

“ No, my daughter, ao rejoined the old man with some energy of 
manner, after a pause, “you must not now know my name — perhaps 
never. In this great world, of Paris, of which you can comprehend 
so little, one person fears me, another despises me ; one ridicules, 
another hates. Did you know my name, you might sometimes hear 
it lightly spoken. That I could not bear. I could not endure to have ] 
the ears of my danghter wounded thus by contempt for the author of 
her existence. Here, at least, in thy presence, in this little solitary 
seclusion, where all is innocence, I wish to be viewed only as thy 
father — esteemed, respected, loved.” 

“ And are you not ever thus to me and more than this, my father?” 
said the fair girl. 

The old man embraced her to his bosom, and pressed his shrivel- 
led lips to her pale, clear forehead. 

“Yes, my daughter, yes! And thine is the only heart in all this! 
great Paris — in all Franee — in all the world, that answers back to j 
mine. Oh, my beautiful Blanche, I love thee; and I love thee even 
for all those causes — youth, beauty, goodness — for which I hate all 
ethers. This is strange, yet it is even so. Sit then beside me, Blanche, ! 
and tell yout father how much you love him. Why, when I am with 
thee, do I permit thee to speak of anything else 1 My child — the 
sole, solitary blessing that God hath vouchsafed me! Others, even] 1 
the loveliest, have parents, brothers, sisters, friends, wives, children 
— they tr#.y have houses, lands, wealth, but I, an infinn old man — I 
have but thee, my Blanche — thee alone ! To thee my heart yearns 
with a warmth and tenderness unutterable : on the other side, 
and to all others, it is ice — as cold and as hard. Should I loose thee ! 
But no, that is impossible. It is a thought, which, for an instant, 1 
cannot endure. Smile on me, my daughter, smile away my appre- 
hensions— ah, that smile ! It was thy mother’s, Blanche. She, 
too, was beautiful. You have many of her manners. Often when 
you pass your little hand across your forehead, as if to sweep away 
all clouds, as she was used to do, I almost think it must be herself. A 
pure heart will ever have an innocent brow — a heaven, all sunshine. 
To my vision, around thee rays the hale of an angel— through thy ; 
clear eyes, my soul lovks down into thine, and then all i3 pure, and I 
serene, and beautiful, as the bosom of a saint.” 

“ My father,” said the young girl, after gazing earnestly and mourn- 1,| 
fully. for some moments upon his face — “My father, I wish I couid 
make thee happy ! Is that impossible 1” 

“Happy? Mel Why, my child, am I not always happy with; 
thee 1 I have only to lo^)k upon thee, Blanche, and my heart at once i ' 
overflows with happiness.” . . 

“My father, I have a request to make — no not a request, only, ij! 
think I should be pleased if 1 could go out some evening, just after the 
sun sets, and walk around and see Paris a little.” 

The old man turned suddenly veiy pale, and, bending a penetrating 
glance of his keta gray eye upon his daughter, in hurried tones 
replied — 

“Never, Blanche, never! Tell me, my daughter, you have never 1 
gone out thus with Dame Marion 1” 

“ No, my father — oh no !” quickly rejoined the trembling Blanche, j 
“I have gone nowhere with Dame Marion, except to church. You 
know you have so desired me often.” 

An expression of alarm passed over the countenance of the jester. 

“ Oh, heaven,” thought he, “some one will see her, some one will 
be inflamed by her loveliness, some one may pursue her steps and 
seek out her retirement : Oh, my God, some villain of the court or 
the city may seduce and ruin her! The daughter of a jester dishon- 
ored would cause only a laugh!” 

“My daughter! my daughter!” exclaimed the old man, eagerly; 
“in time to come, go not out at all into the city ! you know not how 
fatal to women is the atmosphere of Paris — how license and debauch- 
ery pervade every street and lane. Oh, my God!” he continued,! 


raising his eyes and hands to Heaven, “ preserve, I implore thee, this 
fair flower,- reared up so tenderly beneath thine eye in this retired 
asylum — oh, preserve her from all those terrible storms which have 
so often laid low other flowers, as fair as she is, and as pure ! Protect 
her from every unhallowed touch ! Preserve her in safety and in, 
peace, that her unhappy father, in his hour of retirement from the 
miseries of the world, may be refreshed by the petfume of this virgin 
rose, untouched and untainted by all that is impure !” 

Concealing his face in his hands, the old man bowed, and sobbed 
and wept in uncontrollable agitation. His mis-shapen form seemed 
convulsed with agony. His breast heaved— his head rocked from 
from side to side — his knees quivered. Indeed, were he lamenting 
the fulfilment of his worst apprehensions, it would seem that he 
could hardly have exhibited more of wretchedness. 

Upon this scene the simple-hearted Blanche looked with astonish- 
ment and grief. At length she succeeded in withdrawing her father’s 
hands from his face, and his agitation beceme less violent. 

“ Oh, my father ! ” exclaimed the young girl, “ why — why do 
you weep ? If yox wish me to go out no more into the city, it shall 
be so, althougb I can comprehend nothing of the dangers to which 
you allude. I will never go again — I wifi never speak or think of 
going : only do not— do not weep ! I will obey you in anything — but 
do not weep ! ” 

“ Blessings on thee, my child ! God will surely bless thee for thy 
obedience to thy poor old parent. But let me weep — tears often, 
relieve a drowning heart. Besides, Blanche, I must laugh and jest 
during all the remainder of the night. Even now they miss me. I 
must leave thee, Blanche. I must again resume the hateful yoke !” 

“ But you wifi scon come again 1 Say that you will come to see 
your daughter again 1 ” 

“ Perhaps, my child — if possible. But I am not my own master — 

I am the slave of another’s wifi. But where is Dame Marion 1 ” 

The jester called aloud the name of the housekeeper, and pre- 
sently an old woman appeared at the door. 

“ Think you, Dame Marion, that any one observed me when I 
came in 1 ” asked the old man. “ Were you on the watch ? ” 

“ No one can have seen you, sir, I think,” was the reply. “ The 
lane was so dark that I could scarcely see you myself from the ter- 
race, although I was expecting you and was diligently watching.” 

“ Well, I must go, dame. Be sure that you keep my precious bird 
safe for me. Ptemember that she is my life — and thine, too! This 
house it seems to me is too public- I know one more retired, in the 
rear of St. Germain. I must visit it to-morrow. 

“ This house pleases me well, my father,” said Blanche ; “ the 
terrace on the garden wall is so delightful. I can look down into 
the street and all the neighboring gardens, in the evemng^wi.en 
walk.” ...- 

“ Be careful, my daughter — very careful. You will be seen from 
below. Go not often on the terrace. Hark ! heard you not a step 
without the wall 1 ” 

The old man stole to the door, and cautiously unlocking and 
opening it without noise, peered out into the lane. Several times 
he locked keenly up and down the deserted alley, but all was dark 
and still. At length, as if satisfied with hi3 investigation, he turned 
hastily back into the garden, leaving the door half open. As he did 
this, a figure of a man enveloped in a dark mantle stepped from 
behind a buttress near the door, and glided lightly, unobserved, into 
the shrubbery of the garden beneath the wall. 

“ You will always be cautious, dame,” said the jester to the old 
woman ; “you will always be cautious to keep that door closed and 
bolted, and never at night place a lamp near the windows looking 
out upon the terrace.” 

“And how think you it possible, sir, that any one should penetrate 
into this garden or the house, even if he took the trouble, of which 
there is not the slightest probability.” 

At that instant a stir in the shrubbery caused her to look around, 
and close beside her in the shadow stood the figure of a man. A 
scream was on her lips, when an arm was extended, and a heavy 
purs; of gold was pressed into her hand unperceived. Meanwhile, 
Triboulet was looking carefully to the door of the house and up at 
the terrace. 

“Why all these precautions, my father!” innocently inquired 
Blanche ; “ tell me — what fear you 1 ” 

“ Nothing for myself — everything for thee. Danger is all around 
thee. Adieu, my Blanche, adieu. 1 ” continued the father, folding 
his child to his breast, and then retreating to the door. He went 
but a few steps and hastily returned. 

“A thought strikes me, dame. When you have gone to the 
Cathedral on the Sabbath, have you ever remarked whether any one 
particularly observed you — whether any one watched your move- 
! ments, or seemed to follow your steps ? ” 

“ Never,! ” sturdily replied old Marion. 

Blanche turned suddenly pale, then red, but spoke not a word. 

“ If any one ever annoys you or pursues you, dame, you must be 
sure to cry cut for protection,” enjoined the old man earnestly. 

“Ah, never fear me: I shall shout loud enough to scare off the 
most impudent cavalier in Christendom.” 

“And then you wifi be sure ziever, on any account, by day or 
night, to open the garden door, let who will knock as long as he 
may.” 

“ Suppose the king knocks ? ” asked the old woman, as if irritated 
! at the punctiliousness of the jester. 


Of Valois. 


THE NEW WORLD. 


13 


“Above all other men in Paris — in France — in Eurppe, admit not 
Francis of Valois!” was the solemn and energetic reply. “ Bs 
vigilant, Dame Marion — be true, and your reward is sure ! But, as 
you value life and peace, beware that I am not deceived ! ” 

With these words the old man again folded his daughter affection- 
ately to his breast, and hurrying through the door, carefully secured 
it behind him, and departed. 

CHAPTER VIII THE LOVERS. 

It is my lady ; O, it is my lave 

O, that she knew he were'; Romeo Is Juliet, Act II Sc. 2. 

Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face; 

JSlss would a maiden ulush hepaiat my cheek 

For that which thou bast heard me speak te-night.— Ia. 

I do not know t nor have I seen 
More that I may call men, than you, goad friend, 

And my dear father : how features are abroad, 

I am skiiless of; but, by ray modesty — 

The jewel in my dower— I would not wish , 

Any companion in the world but you ; 

Nor cun imagination form a shape , 

Besides yourself, to like of. Tempest, Act III. 

“My poor father! Oh, I fear I have done very wrong! I have 
much to regret!” said the young Blanche, as she pensively listened 
with downcast eye3 and folded hands, to the retreating footsteps of 
her father, as they became less and less audible in the distance. 

“Yes, I have deceived my poor old father! And how fondly he 
loves me! How fearful for my safety — how the slightest thing 
alarms him! I should have been true to him, Dame Marion — I 
should have told him all — I should have told him of that y tung cava 
lier whom every Sunday we meet at Notre Dame, who watches us 
30 narrowly, and looks at me so tenderly, and always follows after U3 
so closely. I should have mentioned him, dame — should I not? 
that handsome young man — you remember him 1” 

“Ah, yes, Miss Blanche, 1 know well whom you mean ;” replied 
the old woman. “But why tell your father, child 1 you dislike this 
young man, I suppose, and wish your father to free you from his 
atlentions 1” 

“ Dislike him, dame ! Oh, no, I do not dislike him!” sighed the 
simple- hearted Blanche. “ On the contrary, ever since the sabbath 
that I first saw him, I have thought and dreamt cf no one else. 
Ever since that hour, when his heart spoke to mine so warmly through 
his bright eyes, hi3 image has lived constantly in my bosom, by night 
and by day. I have felt restless and uneasy when away fr«m him, 
and, oh. Dame Marion, if it ha3 been wrong for him to follow' us so 
closely, I am as bad as he ; for I have followed him in my imagina- 
tion far more closely than he has ever followed us. How noble 
lie always looks! so proud, aEd yet so mild ! And then he has 
such smooth forehead, and such large speaking eyes, and 

~ r . \f% fAt-d, noble bearing, Dame Marion ! Oh, he is such a very 
liLndsome young man !” 

While the fair young Blanche was thus expressing her innocent 
admiration for for the strange cavalier, whose personal attractions, 
whatever theymight be, it is not wonderful should seem transcendent, 
as compared with the deformity of her decrepit old parent — almost 
fhe only other man she had ever particularly noticed — the individual 
who has been rientioned as having by stealth entered unseen the gar- 
den-door, softly drew nigh to the group ; and as he listened with 
eager attention to every syllable uttered by Blanche, pressed a broad 
piece of gold into the ready palm of her companion, as a seeming 
earnest of future reward, if she proved faithful to his purpose. 

“ Yes, Blanche,” replied the old woman ; “ the young man is 
Indeed handsome — very handsome !” 

A second piece of gold found its way into the old dame’s hand. 

“In his eyes, it seems as if one could read his w’hole heart,” said 
Blanche. “ A great heart, dame 1” 

“An immense heart!” (A piece of gold w'as the prompt reward.) 
“ And beautiful eyes, dame?” 

“Divine eyes!” (A piece of gold.) 

“And his form is so elegant? ’ 

“Splendid!” (A piece of gold.) 

“ So graceful !” 

“Magnificent!” (The gold.) 

“ So noble ?” 

“ Grand !” (The gold.) 

“ So brave ?” 

“Formidable!” (The gold.) 

“ Good — perhaps V* 

“ Oh, without doubt good !” (The gold.) 

“ Generous ?” 

“ Munificent !” (The gold.) 

“Accomplished ?” 

“ Oh, very accomplished !” 

Here the mysterious cavafier signified to the rapacious old flatterer, 
that his store of gold was exhausted. 

“Ah!” sighed the unsuspecting Blanche, “how I do love to hear 
you praise him !” 

“He is no doubt a very great lord,” said Dame Marion, “as may 
be seen from hi3 proud air, and especially by the gold embroidery on 
the sleeve of his gauntlet.” 

“ Oh, but I do not wish him a great lord, dame quickly rejoined 
the simple-hearted girl. “ Imuch prefer he shouldbe a poor scholar 
— some poor student at the university, from some one of the provin- 
ces. He would love me so mueh better than a great lord.” 

“ Well — well, it is quite probable, that he is only a poor scholai. 


alter all, since you wish him so,” replied the accommodating old 
lady, “ you young gills have such singular tastes ! You will be rid of 
ill that before you reach my years. But, be the young man what or 
whom he may, he certainly loves you — loves you to desperation !” 

“ Oh, do you think so, dame ! do you, indeed, think so? Well, 
I love him — I believe I love him, too : Sunday never comes round 
quick enough now ; and when 1 do not see him as soon a3 I reach 
the church, I feel so sad and dissatisfied. Oh, dame, I thought last 
Sunday as we were leaving Notre Dame, that he was coming up ta 
speak to me, his eyes looked so eloquent ; and how I did tremble ! 
how my heart did beat! Dame, I think of him both day and night: 
do you suppose he thinks so of me ? Oh, I am sure he does! He 
has my face before him all the time. And he cares for no other girl 
but me. And he never goes to great fetes, where there is dancing, 
and laughing, and singing, as you have told me. Ne, he is always 
sad, and solitary, and lonely, and thoughtful, when he is away from 
me. Is he not so. Dame Mzrion ?” 

“ No doubt he should be so,” was the evasive reply. 

“ No doubt he is so, dame 1 ” 

“.Yes — yes, no doubt he is so — or mill be so.” 

“Ah, how often, when I ane dreaming of him by night or by day, 
do I wish he were with me — at my side — before my eyes.” 

As she thu3 earnestly expressed the promptings of her heart, the 
cavalier glided from his concealment among lhe shrubbery, and 
letting fall his mantle from Ins face, dropped unobserved upon one 
knee beside her and extended his arms. 

— “ That I might see him,” she continued — “ that I might hear his 
voice — that I might speak to him — that I might feel the pressure of 
his hand — be satisfied — contented — happy ! Oh, yes, I love — I am. 
sure I love — ” 

At that instant turning her eyes, what was her amazement to see 
at her feet, by the clear light of the stars, the form and the features 
of which she had so long and so tenderly dreamed, and of which 
she was even then so wildly speaking ! 

“ Say on — say on ! ” said the young man. “ I lose thee ! Say — 

I love thee! Oh, say it! Fear nothing. On lips like thine that 
soft word love is so sweet — so precious! Oh, say that you 
love me ! ” 

Astonished — bewildered — alarmed — the timid girl looked fearfully 
around for the protecting presence of her aged companion. 

She had disappeared. 

“ Marion ! Dame Marion ! ” she faltered in tremulous accents. 

Ne one replied. 

“Marion! Marion!” again she cried, now thoroughly terrified. 
“Oh, God, is there n® one to protect me ! Does no one answer 
me ? Will no one come to me 1 No one ! Then I am lost! ” she 
exclaimed, extending her clasped hands to heaven. 

“And whom would you have t» protect you, my beautiful 
Blanche, and against whom?” mildly asked the cavalier, still bend- 
ing upon his knee at her feet, with his arms extended, as if to fold 
her to his breast. “Is it me that you fear? Blanche, I am thy 
lover. I would give my life to guard thee from a moment’s pain, 
sweet lady ; and is it kind for thee to fear rr.e ? ” 

Trembling and irresolute stood the fair girl, while the fascinating 
stranger spoke. His tones were soft and musical, and so mild — so 
subdued — so imploring, that, strange indeed would it have been, 
could the poor girl have resisted their eloquence from the lips of 
one, who, for months, had been the idol of her maiden visions. 
With one foot advanced in an attitude for flight, she listened with, 
clasped hands ; and, involuntarily — unconsciously, as the pleading 
appeal from the lips of the graceful figure at her feet fell like music 
upon her ear, was she arrested in her purpose. Her head turned 
and her eyes rested timidly on her lover. 

“Oh, how came you here, sir?” she asked in tremulous tones. 

“ Whence came you ? Why have y®u come ? ” 

“ What matters all that, my sweet Blanche ? What matters it 
how I am here, cr whence I came — whether from heaven, or from 
earth — whether I am a man, or a spirit? TVhy I am here, my 
beautiful, is because I love thee — because I would risk my life for 
that love.” 

“ Oh, spare me, sir — have pity on me — if you love me, leave 
me ! ” exclaimed Blanche rapidly, in a feeble and agitated voice. 

“ Oh, go — go at once ! If any one saw ycu enter — if my father ” — 

“Go, my Blanche!” sadly replied the cavalier, rising from his 
knee and gently grasping her hand. “ Yes, I will go, if you would, 
indeed, have it thus. I will obey you, whatever pangs it may cost 
met But mill you — ear. you force me thus from your presence, at 
the moment when we first have met — when, at the hazard of my 
iife, after months of anticipation, I am at your side ; and when 
months may elapse before we ean meet again, if we ever do — when 
I have declared myself all your own, and have far the fust discovered 
that you are all mine — at such a moment must I leave yoir? Yes, 
Blanche, you are mine, as truly as I am yours. You love me, 
fairest — I heard it all, but now from your own lips. Yes — yes, you 
love me ! ” 

Overwhelmed with sham? and confusion, poor Blanche covered her 
blushing face with her hands. “ Oh, he has heard all 1 ’’ she timor- 
ously murmured. 

“ Yes, dearest — all,” replied the young stranger, stealing his arm 
around her waist and heaving bosom. “ Nay, Blanche — nay, fear 
me net. Why should not thy lover hear all, and be to thee ail that 
man may be to woman ? Doubt not that he loves as dearly as thou 


14 


THE NEW WORLD. 


Francis 


lovest, and that thy words were the sweetest syllables that ever fell} 
upon his ear ! ” • j 

“And now, sir, will you leave mel” filteral the trembling 
Blanche, in tones low and tremulous. “Now that you have seen 
me, and spoken to me, and told me you! cv« me, and have heard — 
have heard me say, what — a maiden should not sry, perhaps — now 
will you not leave me — in pity, leave 1 ” 

“And do you bid me leave you, Blanche,’ 1 sadly replied the 
lover, “at a moment, when cur fates are blending into one 1 at a 
moment, when cur double star is just beaming above the horizon? 
at a moment, when for the first time are unveiled the priceless 
treasures of thy pure heart 1 when a paradise of rapture is dawning 
upon thy soul and mine 1 Love— oh, it is the sun of the spirit! 
Peel you not its mild flame kindling even now, Blanche, in your 
gentle bosom 1 Oh, love — love ! The sceptre which death extends 
and which ambition grasps — that glory gathered on the field of battle 
— the winning of an illustrious name — the possessing of boundless 
domains — the wielding of imperial power — to be a pririce — a 
monarch — all these things are but transient — evanescent — earthly. 
In this world of shades and vision, there is but one thing divine — in 
is Love ! Blanche ! Blanche, it is happiness thy lover brings thee ! 
Rapture is knocking timidly at thy young heart. Life is a flower 
— a fragile flower, and its only sweet is love. It is the dove, borne 
on the eagle’s pinion to the highest heaven — it is grace and love- 
liness, quivering beneath the resistless might of power — it is thy soft 
little hand in mine, Blanche, tenderly oblivious of everything else. 
Ob, let us love ! let us love ! ” 

And the enclasping arm of the excited ycung man grew closer 
around the form of his trembling mistress, and sought to clasp her 
bosom to his. 

“ No — no — no ! ” murmured the agitated girl, struggling feebly in 
the embrace of her lover. “ Leave me, sir — oh, release me and 
leave me ! ” 

But it was too late ! 

Toe palpitating form of poor Blanche was in the eager arms of 
the ardent young man, and his burning lips were pressed again and 
again to hers. Overcome by the excitement of her feelings and the 
earnestness of her lover, her head sank back upon kis shoulder — her 
eyes closed — their long, dark lashes reposed upon her cheek — her 
lips were slightly parted — a delicate flush, like a rosy cloud, hung 
upon her forehead, and her white bosom rose and fell irregularly, 
like tumultuous waves. 

“Tell me that you love me, Blanche! Tell me once more that 
you love me ! ” murmured the impassioned cavalier, clasping the 
powerless form of his mistress to his breast, and pressing his lips 
to hers. 

A deeper flush overspread the countenance of Blanche. 

“ You know it, sir, already,” she said in a low and timid tone. 
“You heard me before. You know that I love you.” 

“ Oh, I am happy ! ” exclaimed the lover, again pressing the fair 
girl with transport to his heart. 

“And / — I am lost!” cried Blanche, and with sudden energy she 
released herself from her lover’s embrace. “ Oh, sir, who are you I 
who are you 1 1 do not know you. Pray, tell me your name, sir. 
Tell me you are not a great lord of the court, or a gentleman 1 Oh, 
2 am sure you are not a gentleman. My father fears all the geDtle- 
me a of the court so much ! Will you tell me who you are t Will 
you tell me your name, sir 7 Will you tell me that you are not a 
gentleman 1 ” 

“ Oh, no, my sweet Blanche, I am not a gentleman,” was the 
laughing rejoinder. “And my name — my name is Norman — Nor- 
man Mervil. I am from the province of Anjou. I am a scholar — I 
am of humble parentage — I am very poor and I love” — 

The cavalier was interrupted in the enumeration of his qualifica- 
tions to be the lover of the simple Blanche, by the hasty entrance of 
old Dame Marion, who had byn on the terrace during the interview, 
anxiously watching the streeubelow against surprise. 

“ Some one comes, sir, some one comes,” earnestly exclaimed i 
the old woman, in a low and hurried tone. “ I hear voices in the i 
street and the approach of footsteps. You must fly, sir, instantly. 
There is a private door, at the lower extremity of the garden, lead- 
ing out on the quay, by which you can ‘escape. Here is the key,” 
placing it in his hand.” 

. “ Oh, my father — it is he !” cried Blanche, “ you must leave me, 
sir — you must go at once — indeed you must go !” 

“ Blanche, Blanche, will you love me always as you do now ?’’ j 
“ Ah, sir, will you always love me thus T’ 

“ My whole life is yours !'* 

“No, no, you will deceive! / have deceived my father!” mourn- 
fully replied the conscience-stricken girl. 

“Never, Blanche, never! We shall meet again — we shall meet 
soon — to-morrow night 1 say, shall it be to-morrow night 7” 

“ If you wish it, sir,” was the reply, in a tone low and sad, after | 
a slight pause. You can come now when you choose. I have no 
power to refuse you anything.” 

The young man clasped her for a moment eagerly in his arms. j 
“ Kiss me; Blanche, kiss me !” he whispered. 

With trembling hands she parted the dark masses of hair from 
his forehead, as he bent before her, and pressed to it a lip which 
was now chill and pallid. 

The khs was warmly returned with a hurried embrace, and the 
.young man disappeared among the trees. 


For some moments Blanche gazed sadly on the spot where her 
lover had vanished, then slowly and thoughtfully entered the house. 


CHAPTER IX THE PUNISHMENT. 

What is thy enterprise — thy aim — thy object? — W allenstein. 

You iiRSW, none so well, »one so well as you, of my daughter’s flight 

Merchant of Venice. 

Rod. What ho! Brabantio ! Signior Brabar.tio, ho ! 

Iago. Awake ! what lao ! Brabantio ! thieves ! thieves ! thieves ! 

Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags ! 

Thieves! thieves! Othello, Act I. 

While the scene described in the last chapter was drawing to its 
close in the garden, a very differeat scene was about commenting in 
the cul de-sac without. Old Dame Marion was correct when she 
gave warning to the lovers, that the noise of voices and of footsteps 
was approaching the house. 

It was now near midnight; and, amid the gloom which rested upon 
the city, might be distinguished a group of some half a dozen men 
disguised by masks and mantles, advancing stealthily down the lane, 
followed by a valet bearing on his shoulder a light scaling ladder, 
and in his hand a dark-lantern. There was much conversation, car- 
ried on in whispers ; and, now and then, might be heard a short and 
smothered laugh. 

“Come, gentlemen, come,” said one of the group, i.a a low tone ; 

“ let us be in haste. We have no time to lost^, We have deter- 
mined to take vengeance on the hunchback jester, and here we are, 
at the appointed hour, on the appointed spot, with a warm resent- 
ment, and a righ'eous purpose, and what is quite as much to our 
advantage, a good strong scaling-ladder. We have now arrived at 
the house, and have only to mount the terrace, bear off the girl, ana, 
to-morrow morning, let our merry monarch find this young psri at 
his levee at the Louvre.” 

“And there, good admiral, I suppose our duties end,” said another 
voice. “ Since the jester’s mistress is so very beautiful, our noble 
Francis as a man of taste, will relieve us of all further service, no 
doubt.” 

“ That’s no concern of your’s, Vendome,” was the reply. “ Let 
the devil unravel the snarl as he may, you get your share of the mat- 
ter: you get your revenge on the jester.” 

“ Well said, admiral,” replied a third voice. “And if everything 
is ready, let us to the work. 1 am all enthusiasm to look upon this 
marvellous and mysterious beauty.” 

“ No doubt of that, Clement. You have a marvellous fancy for 
beauties of all kinds — mysterious or just the reverse,’,’ said another 
of the group. “ It will be only ordinary gallantry, however, for yen 
to inscribe one of your sentimental psalms to the poor girl.” 

“Hush! hark!” interrupted Marot, suddenly turning iff 
tude of listening. “D.d none of you hear a footstep, geutlon j'n > 'v. 

The attention of the whole group, arrested by this obser .nou of 
the poet, was at once turned in the direction from which the sound 
'of footsteps seemed to proceed. 

j A man now appeared coming down the lane. His step was slow 
and irregular, and he appeared to be soliloquizing. 

“ Why am I here again 1 Why do I return I Why this indiscrib- 
able apprehension — this presentiment of impending evil I Why do 
I thus hover round the hiding-place of my earthly treasure 1 Why 
quake at every breath that falls on my ear 1 Ah, that old man 
cursed me ! that old man cursed me ! That malediction weighs upon 
my soul. Some evil thing hangs over me. My daughter — .my 
Blanche ! Oh, art thou in safety, my precious one 1” 

The old man stood in the shade, beneath the terrace, and leaned, 
with folded arms, against the wall. Hi3 head restsd heavily on his 
breast, and, from time to time, a deep groan betrayed the agony of 
his feelings. 

“ Who is he 1” whispered one of the group to the admiral. 

“It is our man himself — it is Triboulet!” 

“Ha! good! A double victory !” was the eager answer. “Let 
us spit the old hedgehog on our rapiers at once !” 

“ No, no ! Not so rash, L’Esparre. Would you slay the hen that 
lays the golden eggs?” rejoined the admiral. “ Would jou spoil all 
our sport of to-morrow by one mad act of to-night 7” 

“But the old one will spoil all our sport of to-night and to-merrow 
also,” rejoined L'Esparre with a laugh. 

“ Leave that to me, gentlemen,” said Marot. “ I have it — 1 will 
arrange all;” and, walking boldly up r.o the jester, he pronounced 
his name. “ Hu, Triboulet, is it you 1” 

The old man started hurriedly to his feet, and demanded, 

“ Who is that 1” 

“There — there, old mastiff, don’t bite,” replied the merry poet. 

“ It is I.” 

“And who may / be I” returned the jester, in T a surly tone. 

“I may be Beelzebub, old fellow, for aught you know. I don’t 
think I am, however, or you vveuld dispute my title. Do you know 
me now ?” 

“ Surely I might to know the voice of the most impudent jackan- 
apes in all Christendom — the psalm-singer of Cahors. But what ini- 
quity are you upon at midnight, in such a dark lane as this, Master 
Clement 1 I'll report you to your master, boy, and have you whipped 
for keeping unseasonable hours in the morning !” 

“Nay, good hunchbelly, you’ll do no such thing, and I’ll not tell of 
you. It is plain, old sinner, you are in this dark hole for nothing 
laudable. You have suffered your soft and simple heart to be seduced 
i ! by the blandishments of some practiced syren; and you now await 


Of Valois. 


THE NEW WORLD. 


h*r hour of assignation at the rendezvous. It i3 shameful that she 
forces a lover so young and so fascinating to tarry thus for her 
embraces ! Your old master, the devil, delights to aid his neophytes 
in all their laudable endeavors, and so he has been smoking his pipe 
to afford you a dark night. I am glad your adventures and mine hap- 
pen to be attempted on the same night. What think you is my adven 
tune, old Triboulet 1” 

“ Nothing less than ravishment, no doubt.” 

“ Right, old man ! you’re a prophet.” 

Could the poet have witnessed the effect of these few simple syl- 
lables on the jester, he would have been astonished. His flesh' 
became livid, and cold drops hung upon his face. His knees knocked 
together, and he was forced to lean against the wall to avoid sinking 
Hpon the ground. 

“ And what think you is the game at which we strike 1 No less 
than Madame of Vendome ! We carry her off more with her own 
consent than without it, in order to save appearances. She meets 
her royal lover at the Louvre before the sun is up !” 

“ Capital !” ejaculated the jester with a deep respiration. 

A world of lead seemed lifted from his heart. Then, after a pause, 

“ What is the scheme 1 How do you reach her chamber 1 ’ 

“ All arranged, old fellow; I have the key to it.” 

“Ah, Clement, you poets are awfully given to lying — it is one of 
rour prerogatives. How came the king’s valet with the key to the 
Countess of Vendome’s bed-chamber 1 tell me that !” 

Perhaps the valet’s master obtained the key from the fair hands of 
the beautiful countess herself. Royal lovers are rarely refused any- 
th. ng, and Vendome scorns her hump-bellied, lawful lord, every one 
knows. But stay — let me search my pockets and you shall consult 
your own. senses, my innocent and most unbelieving Triboulet.” 

The n'ght, as ha3 been remarked, wa3 excessively dark, and a , 
dease mist, which now was coming up from the Seine, rendered it ; 
>et darker. The poet, therefore, while he pretended to be searching! 
hU packets for the key, stepped lightly and rapidly back to the 
group of his friends, unobserved by the jester. The courtiers had 
d'.3ting'Hshed nothing of the previous conversation. • 

“Cfcufek — quick, Vendome!” whispered the poet. “Your key 
one mouent.” 

The kw was handed him. 

“Ah, ijeie it is, at last,” continued Marot, who was again with 
the jesteri “ Here is the key, you can feel the blazon of Vendome on 
the middfe of the shank.” 

The oli man took the key in hi3 hands, and scrutinized it for several 
i" im’tes Jyith eare. 

- r - t - ''Relieve you don’t lie, Master Clement. Here are the three 
yme-leaves. The key is plainly Vendome’s, however you may have 
cbtue by it. Well, the plot is excellent — I must have a part in it. 
•How the fat Vendome will rave to find in the morning his beautiful 
.•wife stolen ! But where is your party, Master Marot V’ 

“They are just at hand,” was the reply. “ We are all masked, 
for fear of accidents.” 

“ Have you no mask for me 1” 

“ I hare an old mask in my pocket, but it will never suit yoar huge 
face. Besides the strings are gone. But stay, I will do my best for 
you, by way of paying up old scores ; and your broad back wilLcome 
in use and be of service to us, without doubt.” 

The poet then proceeded to place a mask on the face of the Buf- 
foon, and bound on a large handkerchief around his eyes and ears, 
under pretence of retaining it in its place. j 

“Are there many of you 1” inquired the old man. “I neither 
hear or sea anything with this bandage around my head.” 

“ There are half-a-dozen of us, perhaps,” was the reply. 

“ The scaling-ladder was now planted firmly against the wall sur-i L 
mounted by the terrace of Triboulet’s house, and the party prepared 
to proceed with their adventure. 

“ We need have no great fear of being heard, let us make what 
noise we may,” said the poet to his comrades, with a laugh. “ That 
bandage makes the old fellow both biindand deaf. Now, Triboulet,” 
he continued, leading the old man to the base of the ladder ; “your 
sole office 13 to stand on the inner side of this ladder, and hold it 
firmly against the wall. We shall then enter Vendome’s Hotel in a 
body, and the adventure will soon have been accomplished. Hap- 
pen what may, you will reme mber that this is your post, and you will 
sot move from it until all is over. Stand firm. Everything depends 
on this.” 

The dark lantern was now opened, and, by its light, several of the 
party mounted the ladder to the terrace, and disappeared into the 
Louse. 

In a few moments the door in the wall seemed forcibly flung wide, 
and a man appeared, bearing in his arms the form of the struggling 
Blanche, with a large bandage bound over her mouth. In an instant, 
the whole party gathered around them, and the group rapidly disap- 
peared up the lane. 

“ They are somewhat silent as well as slow in their movements,” 
at length muttered the old man, still continuing faithfully at his post. 
He waited a few moments longer, and, hearing nothing, ventured to 
^remove the bandage and the mask from his face. 

He looked around him. All was still and deserted. On the ground 
at his feet stood a dark lantern, and, beside it, by the light, he per- 
ceived something white. He stooped and examined it. It was his 
■daughter's veil ! He looked up — the ladder was planted against the 
terrace of his own house : around — the door in the wall was spread j 


15 


| wide: he listened — on the night-wind mournfully came the faint 
; cry — “ My father ! Oh, my father ! ” followed by the distant shout — 
j “ Victory ! ” 

Instantly the dreadful truth rushed upon his conviction ! 

He sprang furiously into the house. The next moment he appear- 
ed, dragging along the half-undressed and shrieking Marion. He 
; gazed on her in a stupor of horror and rage, while she implored his 
mercy. At length, raising his eyes and clasped hands to heaven, he 
feebly ejaculated — 

“ Ah, that old man’s curse ! ” and dropped, like a lifeless log, 
upon the ground. 

CHAPTER X. — THE TEMPTATIONS 
Let others 

Deem that the splendor consecrates the sin t 

I’d loved thee with as pure and proud a love, 

If thou liadst been the poorest cavalier 

That ever served a king— thou know’st it, Louis. BL't-vrsit, 

“ In spite of all the virtue we can boast* 

The woman that deliberates is lost.’' 

He loves me, then ! He loves me ! Love ! wild word ! 

Hid I say love ? Dishonor, shame, and crime 
Dwell on the thought ! And yet— and yet — he loves me! 

The Di-chess de la Valliese. I 

It was morning. The scene of our story shifts to the royal ante- 
chamber in the palace of the Louvre. The apartment was of small 
dimensions, but elegantly decorated and furnished. The hangings, 
the gildings, the paintings, the sculpture, all the articles of furniture, 
bore witness to that refinement of taste, for which the age was dis- 
| liBguished. A sideboard, at one extremity of the room, was garnish- 
led with a rich array of gold and silver plate, splendidly embosssd, 
and numerous vessels filled with choicest wines. At the other ex- 
tremity of the apartment, folding doors seemed to conduct into a 
larger and more public one beyond, while, on the right, was a door 
leading into the bed-chamber of the king, over which hung the heavy 
folds of a curtain of gorgeous tapestry. 

The sun had been above the horizon for several hours, and was 
now streaming cheerfully ihrough the broad casements. At length, 
the folding doors opened, and a group of courtiers, gayly laughing 
and talking, entered the room. They were evidently the daring ad- 
venturers ot the preceding night. 

“Well, gentlemen, we are all here, a3 agreed,” said L’Esparre.' 
‘ Now for the catastrophe of this adventure.” 

“ It will be rare sport to witness the hunchback’s rage at the loss 
of hi3 ladye-love ! ” cried Vendome. “ He will never discover the 
place of her concealment. Did any of the palace porters see her 
[last night, when she was brought here I” 

“It was impossible to prevent it,” was the reply ; “ but they have 
all been strictly enjoined to declare that no female passed the thresh- 
old during the night. Moreover, the valet who accompanied us on 
the expedition — a rogue who seems quite au fait at such matters — 
has taken upon himself to noise about among the cronies of Triboulet, 
that he saw a young woman borne by men, after midnight, into the 
Hotel D’Hautefort, and that she struggled violently, and had a band- 
age around her msuth.” 

“ Capital ! ” cried Vendome. “ The Hotel D’Hautefort, just in the 
opposite direction from the Louvre 1 ” 

“Excellent!” chimed in Marot. “And, in order to fasten the 
blinder yet more bewilderingly over his eyes, I too have been at 
1 work.” 

“ Well done, Clement ! ” cried they all, gathering around the poet; 

! “ and what is it 1 ” 

“ I had this note placed in his hands this morning, when he just 
made his appearance — 

■ ‘Your lautye-love fair is now mine, Trihoolet! 

Farewell! we leave FraHce to go over the sea*’ 

Can you perpetrate a keener joke than that, comrades!” 

The whole group laughed immoderately. 

“ Signed Jean de Niceties, ” added the poet. And the laughter was 
renewed louder than before. 

“ Ye gods ! how the old murrain will burst and rage ! ” cried 
L’Esparre. 

“ Oh, a capital joke ! ” added Vendome. “ The ©Id cripple will 
be like a baited bull; he will not know on which side to leap to find 
his tormentors.” _ 

“ Ah, vs hen we see the malicious wretch tottering about, with his 
hands clenched and his teeth grating with despair and rage, the 
sport of all he meets, methinks we shall pay him up, in a few hours, 
the arrearages of months,” said Marot. “ The old inquisitor will 
now experience” — 

The irritated and resentful poet was interrupted in the expression, 
of his bitter feelings by the entrance, through the side-door of which 
mention lias been made, of the king in a morning dress, leaning upon 
the arm of Bonnivet. The admiral seemed reciting to Francis some- 
thing which interested him, and with which he was highly enter- 
tained. The courtiers ranged themselves on either side of the apart- 
ment, as the pair approached ; and, to his condescending salutations, 
returned their most reverential devoirs. 

“ And she is at this moment in the Louvre, did I understand you, 
Bonnivet!” asked the king. . 

“ Yes, sire, and she has received the most re spec tun attention in 
private apartments, ever since she reached the palace.” 

“Are you sure she is my Triboulet’s mistress !” ESAed tne king i 

! “ Triboulet’s mistress ! that’s loo good ! ” 

! 


36 


THE NEW WORLD. 


Francis 


“ She is his mistress, or his wife, sire — possibly his daughter. But 
she is too lovely for a thing like Triboulet to be her father. Will 
your majesty receive her now V* . j 

“ Yes, yes, immediately ! I long to see her. It will be capital 
Eport, this making Triboulet jealous. Bat I never had a*y suspicion 
of his being a husband, father, or lover before ; had you, Bonnivet! 
How funny! Triboulet’s mistress! Triboulet’s wife ! Triboulet’s 
daughter ! But that is too absurd ! And you say she is beautiful ! 
Well, well, let me see the lady-bird.” 

The admiral left the room at once, and Francis, turning to 
L’Esparre, exchanged with him a few sentences of a light and jovial 
character, and concluded by draining a morning-draught of the spicy 
Burgundy which stood upon the sideboard. From time to time, 
however, his eye rested with ill-repressed curiosity upon the folding- 
doors, in anticipation of the spectacle about to be exhibited. 

Nor was it long delayed. The door opened, and Blanche, agitated 
and trembling — her delicate form shrouded in the voluminous folds 
of a large veil, and leaning for support and protection on the stately 
admiral, appeared on the threshold. 

The king gazed with a look of surprise on the young girl as she 
entered, and then sank carelessly into a chair. 

“ Come, my fair girl,” said the admiral soothingly, “ do not be 
terrified. You have no cause to tremble. Take courage. Y r ou are 
near the king, who will protect you, and be very kind to you.” 

“ Is that young man the king!” she faltered, when she ventured 
to raise her eyes, as the pair drew nigh 4 to the chair on which his 
majesty was sitting. 

“ It is the king,” was the brief reply. 

Forsaking the arm of Bonnivet, poor Blanche crept forward and 
sank at the royal feet. 

“ Oh, sire, have mercy on me ! ” she cried, in tones of the most 
touching distress. 

At the sound of that voice, Francis startedjto his feet, and made a 
rapid gesture that every individual but Blanche should retire from 
the apartment. 

The instant they were alone, the king raised her from th.e floor, 
and placing her in the chair he had just occupied, dropped upon his 
knee at her feet. Respectfully and tenderly, he then laid away ihe 
veil from that pallid but beautiful face : 

“Blanche!” he exclaimed. 

“Norman!” was the reply of the innocent and simple-hearted 
girl; “ my Norman !” 

“ My Blanche ! my Blanche ! my angel ! my love ! beautiful as 
ever ! come to my arms ! ” exclaimed the lover. 

“ No — oh, no ! ” was the timid reply of the shrinking girl. “ The 
king — the king ! Leave me, sire ! Oh, I do not know what (.to 
think, or to say. Norman — no, you are not my Norman — you are 
ihe King of France. Oh, whoever you are,” she continued, “ have 
pity and send me home ! ” 

“Have pity on thee, Blanche ! ” cried the king, raising her from 
his feet ; “ what a petition to one who adores thee ! Whatever 
Norman Mervii, the poor scholar, said to thee last night, Francis of 
Valois, the king of France, repe-ats to thee this morning. 1 have 
told thee I love thee — you have told me the same ; why may we not 
still be happy ! A man is none the worse lover, Blanche, for being 
a monarch. You thought me a poor country scholar, fairest — per- 
haps something even meaner, yet you loved me. And now’ that yoa 
have chanced to learn that my birth is somewhat higher, and that I 
am the king of France, will you hate me ! I have not the happiness 
to be a clown, my pretty Blanche, though as you seem so strangely to 
desire it, I would, for your sake, 1 1 cere one. You will not cease to 
love me, Blanche, because I happen to be a king ! Say you will 
not ! ” 

“ Oh, sire, I have ne power not to love you, whatever you may 
be ; and yet — and yet — oh, my .God, I wish I were in my grave !” 

And the unhappy girl burst into an uncontrollable paroxysm of 
tears. 

“ Blanche ! Blanche ! ” cried the king, distressed at her anguish 
and striving in vain to allay it. “ Do — do not, I pray you, distress 
me thus ! Do not think, for an instant, that I would willingly cause 
. pain. Blanche, if a king can make you happy, you shall be so. The 
fete, the game, the tournay, the dance, the song of the troubadour, 
the praise of the poet, the undivided admiration of the most splendid 
court in Europe and the undivided heart of its monarch, shall all — 
all be yours. And then, love, think ! you will always be with your 
Norman — our future fates will be one. Oh, think of this, Blanche, 
and of all our undisturbed commupion of soul— the rapturous inter- 
course of love — the quiet ramble alone in the park, at sunset — the 
morning jaunt — the hunt — the drive — the thousand delights of the 
sunny summer day — the ten thousand joys which night with its dusky 
wing overshadows! Oh, my beautiful Blanche, let us be lovers — 
Jet us be happy ! Life is but short, my sweet one — life is at best but 
short ; and age, and infirmity, and sickness soon enough come over 
ns; and existence, bereft of those joyous moments which love alone 
can sprinkle along the pathway of its votaries, is but a weary bur- 
then— nay, it is a sad-hued tissue, without a solitary spangle to light 
it up — like the sky without a star — like the earth without a flower 
Blanche, I have thought long and earnestly of all this — much of 
human happiness and its pursuit— much of human life, its end and it* 
aim ; and this is my fixed conviction — my maxim of conduct : God 
made man to be happy, and we honor Him when we make ourselves 
-3J, and all who are around us. Blanche, I am young, but you are 


younger; it is but meet, then, that 1 should counsel. Oh, let us 
love ! let us love ! ” 

To this eager rhapsody, poor Blanche eagerly listened — her pale 
face covered with her hands — and her heart sank within her. She 
j quietly retained her position, without attempting the slightest reply; 
but when the king, at its conclusion, mistaking her silence for 
assent to his wishes, extended his arms to fold, her to his bosom, she 
shrank, trembling, almost with fear, from his proffered embrace. 

“ Oh, my dreams— my illusions— how they have fled .' ” she sadly 
murmured. “How little — oh, how little now seems that idol of my 
bosom like the pure, bright being that I fancied him !” 

“My Blanche! what means this!” said Francis, in a subdued 
tone, after a pause of surprise. “ Why do you reject me thus! And 
so you fancied me one of those timid, trembling, blushing, bashful 
lovers — one cf those luke-warm, weeping sentimental simpletons, 
who would be satisfied with a sigh, and a smile, and a glance of the 
eye from the woman whom he worships ! My Blanche ! my pretty, 
simple little Blanche — was it not so ! Am I not right ! But you 
will seon get over that.” 

And again the king attempted to clasp her to his bosem. But this 
time he was repulsed with not a little of anger and disgust. The 
clear hazel eye sparkled and the bright red lip quivered. 

“ Leave me, sir ! Leave me ! Go !_” she cried, as sternly as her 
soft voice would permit. 

“ Blanche — Blanche ! ” said the king with seriousness; “ do ycu 
consider whom you have at your fee: ? France — her whole terri- 
tory ; her wealth ; her splendor ; her .fifteen millions of men ; pov r, 
rank, honor — all arc mine. I am Francis of Orleans, the king ! And, 
Blanche, Francis is thine! the king is thine! Thou art sovereign of 
the sovereign. I am the king; and now wilt thou be my queen 1” 

“Your icife, sir!” was the simple question of Bidnciie, locking 
inquiringly into his eyes. 

I “ What innocence ! What simplicity ! What virtue !” exclaimed 
the king with a smile. “Ah, Elanche, the wife of a king is no*, 
always the mistress of his heart; and the mistress of his heart is 
stldom his wife.” * 

“The mistress of the king!” ejaculated the poor girl, with p. 
glance of horror at her royal lover, at the Fame time rising to her 
feet, as if to find safety in flight. “Never, sir — never ! What vile 
disgrace! Sir, release me! Let me go to my honas. I am not 
yours ; I never can be yours. I am my father’s ; my poc:, deserved 
father’s, who, when he finds I am stolen from him, will su ciy die ! ” 

A3 she alluded to her father, she bur t into a flood, oi tears, ar.d 
, wept and sobbed, as if her heart would break. 

The feelings of Francis, which, had they been untai. bj! by the; 
license of the times and his station, would have been ecr-csL*^ 
remarkably amiable, were now thoroughly touched. 

He placed the distressed g'-rl upon a chair, and knel: at her reef. 

“Nay, Blanche ; nay, do not weep. You are dear, very dear to 
me. I knew not until this moment that you ivere so dear. It pains 
me to see you weep; and to know that / am the cause of such tears 
is worst of all. Oh, do not weep ! Come to my heart! ” 

“Never, sir ; never ! ” 

“ My Blanche, have you not said you loved me ! Y’ou have not 
forgotten that 1 You have not retracted that ? ” 

“ But I knew not then you were the king. That is all ever now. 
I cannot be your wife. Y'ou are a king.” 

“Then I have been blessed by you against your will . my sweet 
Blanche ! But do not weep ; do not sob so like a forsaken one. Oh, 
l am a wretch for having caused tears to those beautiful eyes. 
What ! Francis of Valois make a woman weep ! Why, I shall be 
despised throughout all Christendom! Weep no more. Y'ou shall 
1 not be harmed. Everything you wish shall be granted.” 

“Oh, are you, indeed, seiious in what you say, sir!” cried 
Blanche, brushing away her tears, while a gleam of joy passed over 
her pale countenance. “All this, then, is only a jest ! I v. as sure it 
could not be reality. And you will send me back again to my home 
and my poor father. Y'ou are the king ; you can do anything. I 
live in a retired lane near the Hotel Yendcme. But you know all 
this, I suppose. And yet — oh, I can comprehend nothing ! They 
seized me last night just as I was going to rest — not long after you — 
after my Norman left me ; and they carried me off in the dark, I 
know not where; and they did not treat me kindly, sir: they were 
very rough and cruel, and they pained my limbs. But, why do I tell 
all this to you ? It must be that you know it all ! Everything seems 
confused to me like a vision. And you — you w horn I thought so 
mild and gentle — ycu to treat me so unkindly ! Oh, I do not think I 
love you now, sir. Y'ou are a king : I fear you.” 

“Ah eruel one!” replied Francis, with a smile; “I shall make 
i you fear me.” 

“ Leave me, sir! ” cried Blanche, as ihe king again attempted to 
embrace her ; and, springing from her seat, she retreated to the far- 
iher extremity of the apartment. 

The king followed, and the poor victim continued to retreat. In 
course of her flight, the small side-doer, leading into the inner charn- 
• , ber caught her eye, and, without an instant’s reflection, she darted 
| through the half-opened entrance, securing the door behind her. 

Francis paused an instant ; then, taking a small key from his 
girdle, he quietly locked the door. 

“ A strange refuge, pretty one ! thy lover’s bed-chamber, cf til 
other places ! And, now, what’s to be done ! ” he continued, pacmg 
‘ the apartment with folded arms. “ I love her ; she loves me. She 


Of Valois. 


THE NEW WORLD. 


17 


mast be mine. Bat, ne violence ! She mast not be harmed. I love 
her too well for that. I must be kind and affectionate to her. I 
must win her by gentleness. Mine she must be ; mine in heart she 
already is, notwithstanding her resistance. No woman, young or 
old, ever said to Francis of Valois the three syllables. ‘I love Ihee,’ 
who, soon or late, became not, soul and body, his own ! ” 

CHAPTER Xt THE AUBERGE. 

“ Tru'-t not a man ! They are by nature cruel, 

False, deceitful, treacherous, and inconstant. 

When a man ta ’ V of love, with caution hear kirn 1 
But if he swear, he’ll certainly deceive you 

O, to what a reed 

We bind our destinies, when trytn we love !. 

Peace, honor, conscience lost— if I lose hint. 

What have I left? The Dccress of La VAllierb.— Act nr. 
The ange| hath not left her I if the plumes 
Have lost the white ness of their younger glory, 

The wings have still the instinct of the skies, 

And yet shall bear her up 1 Is. 

On the banks of tho Seine, near to that ancient fortress so cele- 
brated in the licentious and bloody biography of Margaret of Bur- 
gundy, La Tour de Nesle, stood an old and ruined mansion. It was 
two stories in height, although its dimensions were limited. The L 
principal entrance, which looked out upon the river, was protected \ 
by a heavy portico with a slanting roof, on which stood a faded sign i 
of the Auberge of “ Lrt Comme du Cin Another and smaller 
entrance to the hotel could be seen in the rear, to the left, near to 
which was a low casement partially obstructed, but easily permitting) 
any person standing without, to observe all transpiring in the chief 
apartment on the ground- floor, within. 

At the distance of some rods from the Auberge, at the foot cf the j 
quay, stood the ruins of a parapet of stone, into which, as a base- 
ment, was secured the iron frame-work supporting a large bell, which 
had once been in use for a Ferry. For years, indeed, had the old) 
cabaret been famed as the “ Inn of the Ferry.” At the foot of the 
parapet rippled on the dark waters of the Seine, and, beyond the 
stream, rose the multitudinous spires and roofs of ancient Paris : 
prominent among which, beetled up the heavy twin towers of Notre 
Dame. ' • 

The sun had been below the horizon for some hours, and over the 
old city, in the dusk of the evening, gloomed the gathering clouds of 
aa impending storm. 

Within the ancient tavern, on the hearth, gleamed the flickering 
flame of a fire, as could be seen through the half opened door ; while 
ihe apartment was thus lighted up sufficiently to exhibit to the satis 
faction of the beholder its furniture and its inhabitants. Of the latter 
there were but two, a man and a woman. The man was sitting on 
x low u*in oefore the blaze, busily engaged in furbishing a huge 1 
sword ; and the woman, young and beautiful, seemed equally engaged 
with her household avocations, in the furtherance of which she shortly 
withdrew into a less public apartment. 

The furniture of the room seemed of the most primitive descrip- 
tion. In the centre, stood a large aftd massive table, and, in various 
positions, might be seen oaken stools, equally massive, and almost as 
large. Upon an open dressoir against the wall, on one side was 1 
arranged a variety of utensils of earthenware of convenience in house- 
hold economy, but of the coarsest description ; and against the 
opposite wall was planted a ponderous structure, designed apparently) 
by its inventor as a pantry, but which, in course of its prolonged 
existence, had been forced by the necessities of its possessor to subserve 
every other accommodation, as well as that for which it was origi- 
nally designed. This old Ark, for it contained a little of everything, 
was in fact the prominent feature of the apartment ; and, a more 
venerable representative, as well as relique, of time departed — what 
with its age -stains, and its damp-mould, and its festoons of flaunting 
spiders’ web3 — could scarcely have been hunted up. 

The two floors of the old mansion communicated with each other 
by means of a ricketty flight of stairs, or rather a ladder, most perilous 
to mount ; running up at one extremity of the lower apartment. It 
was blest with not even an apology for a balustrade ; about every 
other step was in some degree fractured, and it shook and creaked 
beneath the step of an intruder, like — like to an old gibbet in a gale 
of wind ! 

To the apartment above was a single window opening on the roof 
cf the portico. And thus the whole interior of this most democratic 
of mansions was laid open, by means of its wide-spread doors and 
windows, and the .interior illumination of its flickering tire upon the 
hearth, to the inspection of any passer-by, possessed of curiosity 
enough to honor it with a look. 

Through the increasing glcom of the night, two figures might be 
descried slowly approaching the Auberge, along the by-road which 
conducted from the city. One of these individuals was, seemingly, 
an old man : the other a young girl, who was led by the hand ; and 
they were engaged in earnest conversation. 

“ And you love him still, Blanche 1” asked the old man. 

“ Yes, nay father, I love him still,” was th* soft and timid reply. 

“ you have striven constantly, during the last six cr seven 
months, to crush this passion 1” 

“ I b ave Uied to obey you, my father ; yet — I love him only the 
more.” 

“ Oh, frail heart of woman !” ejaculated the old man. “And, yet, 
with- ail thy frailty, how firm — how constant — how changeless, 
where once thy affection is fixed ! It matters not the character of 
lhe magnet, vicious or virtuous : its power, by themagfietized, is ever 


acknowledged, and is ever equally strong ! But my daughter, why, 
why do you love this man I Explain to me the reasons for your 
love.” 

“ I do not know why;” was the simple answer. 

“ Strange !” said the old man, rausifig. 

“Oh, it seems not so to me, my father. Men love those who do 
them favors ; who give them things of value ; who make them 
happy; who are kind to them — do they not 1” 

“ They tie, my daughter.” 

“ Well, Francis has brought nothing but ill to me ; he has deprived 
me of my only treasure ; he has caused me much pain : and yet I 
know not why — I love him ! So wild, indeed, is my folly, my dear 
father, that were it necessary, I feel that I could die far him who has 
been so fatal to me, as willingly as for you, who have ever been so 
kind.” 

“ My child, I pardon thee,” replied the old man, tremulously — 
almost reproachfully, so tender were his tones. 

“But hear me ! hear me, my father,” quickly rejoined the young 
girl : “ he loves me thus !” 

“ No, my child — no ;” replied the father, with a melancholy smile, 
a3 if pitying the simplicity of his inexperienced daughter. “ That is,, 
indeed, a folly, the wildest folly of all.” 

“Oh, yes — yes, he does love me!” was the eager answer. “He 
has told me so often ! He has sworn it, father, he has sworn it by 
God in Heaven ! And, then, he has always spoken so softly to me, 
and has treated me so kindly and so tenderly, and he has been so 
respectful to me, and he has besought me so often and so humbly to 
forgive him the harm he has done me, that I sometimes almost fear 
that I have forgiven him, though I suppose I ought not. And, when 
he tells me he loves me, and looks so tenderly down into my very 
soul with his large bright eyes — oh, my father, it is not in the heart 
of your poor Blanche — it is not in the heart of man to disbelieve all. 
Her heart loves too deeply itself even to believe that such love is not 
returned.” 

The pair walked slowly on for some steps in silence. The young 
girl, from time to time, gazed earnestly into her father’s face, as if 
striving ,o interpret the dark shadow’s which were lowering porten- 
tously there. 

“Infamous ravisher !” at length he muttered, as if t» himself, in 
the vehemence of his feelings. “ Hi3 hand ha9 laid my earthly hap- 
piness in ruins: let him beware — let him beware !” 

And the old man quivered like a seared leaf with suppressed excite- 
ment. 

“My father! my father !j’ exclaimed the terrified Blanche — “ Oh, 
what do yon mean! you will not harm him 1 you have forgiven — ” 

“Never! never!” interrupted the jester, with terrible) emphasis. 

“ Forgive ! For seven interminable months have I striven to forget? 
but it has been only that my vengeance might, at last, prove the 
more severe, and the more deadly ! 

For some moments Blanche clung in speechless terror to her 
father’s arm for support. 

“My father,” she at length faltered: “will you, abo, take ven- 
geance on me 1” 

“ On you, my poor ruined child — on you ! Why, Blanche, have I 
ever blamed you for one instant I Have I ever even looked a re- 
proach at you ? Has one syllable of murmur at you left my lip 1 Have 
I not been a3 kind aad as tender toward you, my daughter — oh, 
more so, lince that dreadful night, as before 1 Thou art innocent — 
thou art innocent ! This is my last, lone, consoling thought. And, . 
oh, were it possible for such a pure, beautiful being as thou art, to 
be guilty, the guilt of thy mistaken loVe has brought its own punish- 
ment. I can have no vengeance for thee. Vengeance on thee from 
me ! A wild thought, my Blanche.” 

“Then, then, my father, spare him! If you love me, if you would 
not destroy me, spare him — forgive him ! During the past few months 
I have often, you know, ventured to speak of him to you ; I have 
even been encouraged by you so to do, and you have seemed to 
have forgiven him ; you have se-emed to love him even as you ever 
did before.” 

“ Seemed /” was the bitter reply. “ You are right, my child. I 
have seemed! Blanche — Blanche, listen. to me : This nun has ruined 
you ! He has deliberately, calmly, with full purpose ef mind, bereft 
you of that, which all heaven, earth, and hell cannot restore ! He 
has made you a thing to be despised, scorned, loathed by the whole 
world — by every living being, except your poor old father ! And he 
effected this by taking a most base and villainous advantage of the 
pure and innocent attachment of a young, ardent and inexperienced 
child ! Now, my daughter, tellme — I know you will tell me truly, 
when you think upon all this dreadful wrong which this man has 
done you, the ruin, complete and irreparable, which your deceiver 
has brought upon you — tell me, does your heart feel no anger 
against him 1” 

“ Anger against him ! my father 1 Oh, no — never ! Indeed, I do 
not think now of all that of which you speak. Perhaps it is strange 
that I do not. I did at first. But now I only think of him ; how 
noble, and illustrious and handsome he is ; and how kindly and ten- 
derly he always treats me ; and how dearly he loves i.*.e — loves me 
alone. And I think, my father — I think — that — i shall soon be a 
mother. This is all my world now. I do not care for any other 
world, what it thinks of me — what it says of me. I have done very 
wrong, I know. But I have done so for the happiness of one dearer 
far to me than reputation or life : and, so IcEg as Francis loves me, 


18 


THE NEW WORLD. 


Francis 


aad you forgive me, I shall be happy. When that ceases, then I 
will die. If I have broken God’s law in one respect, oh. He knows, 
that I have striven with prayer and agony to .observe that law in 
every other !” 

The old man listened thoughtfully, in silence, with mingled and 
varying feelings of indignation and tenderness. At length he re- 
plied : 

“ You say, Blanche, that so long as your betrayer loves you, and 
■treats you kindly, you shall be happy— you shall love him. Suppose 
you were assured, beyond a doubt — a hope — that he loved you no 
longer — that he never had loved you : suppose you were to hear him 
declare this, with your own ears, and were to see him, with your 
«wn eyes, confirm his protestations by caressing another, would you 
still love him 1” 

The poor girl stopped and turned very pale. 

“ Oh, I do not know, my father,” she replied, after a pause : and, 
-then quickly and eagerly—" But that is not possible ! He loves me— 
only me : he loves me more than all the world beside — better than 
iiis own life — he told me so yesterday.” 

“ At what hour 1” asked the old man, bitterly. 

"At about this hour, yesterday evening.” 

“ Well, Blanche, we will stop at this old cabaret. You have 
thought it singular that I have desired you to walk with me to this 
lonely spot ; you will now discover my purpose.” 

The old man advanced cautiously to the low window in the Au- 
berge, of which mention has been made, and, having glanced hastily 
into the apartment described, stepped back again to his daughter. 

" Stand at this window,” he continued, leading her up to the 
casement after having gazed carefully around him on every side, to 
be sure that they were unobserved ; “ look into that room and notice 
all that is said and done. Last evening, your deceiver assured you 
that he loved you : mark what he assures another this evening.” 

Obedient to her father’s request, Blanche looked into the cabaret, 
and, for a short time, both were silent. 

“ What see you, my daughter V’ asked the old man, at length. 

" I see only a large, dark-leoking man, seated before the fire, 
polishing a monstrous sword,” was the reply. "He is very busy;) 
he does not raise his head.” 

" Be patient,” said the old man, " you will see more anon. Nay, 
do not tremble, my child ; your father is with you.” 

And the jester placed himself at her side, and putting his stalwart 
arm around the waist of the trembling girl, he looked with her into 
• the apartment. 

For some time, everything remained as before. At length, hasty 
footsteps were heard approaching ; the small door beside them was 
thrown open, and the king, in the uniform of an officer of his guard, 
entered the room. 

There could be no disguise, no mistaking. There wa3 the bold 
and handsome ffice ; there the elegant figure and graceful movements 
of Francis of Valois. 

Blanche now trembled violently, and a murmured ejaculation of 
astonishment died between her lips. B,egardless of everything eke, 
she now pressed her forehead against the casement, and, with a 
listening ear, gazed intently on all that transpired. 

The king walked briskly across the apartment, and, advancing to 
■the man at the fire, gave him a tap on the shoulder. 

The man looked up from hie employment. It was Saltabadil, the 
Burgundian. 

“ Bon soir my good fellow !” cried the king, "There are two 
things I desire to see instanter ?” 

" What are they, sirl” 

" One is your fair sister, Madeline, the other a cup of wine ” 

" It is the constant custom of this king, ‘ by the grace of God,’ ” 
whispered the old man into his daughter’s ears, “ thus to expose his 
life in the most degraded cabarets in his capital, where he soon gets, 
^irunk and becomes the gyramede of a tavern.” 

Blanche made no reply. 

Meanwhile, Saltabadil had gone to the pantry, which has been 
described, and, producing thence an earthen jug and a cup of pew- 
ter, silently placed them on the table in the centre of the room. 
Then striking two blows with the hilt of his sword on the floor, the 
woman, " young and beautiful,” to whom reference ha3 been had in 
ihe opening of this chapter, in a few minutes entered the apartment. 

She was apparently two or three-and-twenty years of age, though 
her air and bearing bespoke the maturity of one much more advanced. 
Her stature rather excelled that of her sex generally. Her form was 
full and round, and her limb3 seemed almost muscular in thair devel- 
opment. Her hair was rather coarse in fibre, bat black and glossy ; 
and tastefully, though carelessly arranged. Her complexion was a 
clear olive j lips too full for beauty, but well shaped, red and flexible ; 
brow clear and open ; eye large, dark, lustrous — all passion ; teeth 
small, uniform, brilliant. Add to this description a seductive smile 
and a charming naivete and frankness of manner, and the Bohemian 
girl may, methinks, be imagined by our reader, as, even in imagina- 
tion, she stands before us now. 

We will say nothing ef her dress, for we know nothing of the cos- 
tume of the Bohemian damsels of 1517 ; but we have no doubt that 
it was bee lining in cut and eolor, though coarse in texture : nor will 
we allude to the softness of her tones, or the richness of her idiom, 
for she has not yet permitted us to judge of either. 

As the Bohemian girl sprang lightly into the room, with a good- 
iiumored smile on her open features, the king placed himself in her 


i patn, and sought to clasp her in his arms. She eluded his grasp, 

and, passing to the other side of the large table, seated herself care- 
lessly upon one corner, and laughed merrily at his discomfiture. 

As for Saltabadil, lie very gravely resumed the furbishing of his 
sword, as if the brightness of his earthly hopes depended on the lus- 
tre of its blade. 

I say, my good fellow,’’ cried the king, "that hideous bar of 
jiron that you are scouring so unmercifully there, will be all the 
brighter if you scour it with a little dew.” 

“ I comprehend,” was the laconic answer. 

Rising with great gravity, Saltabadil shouldered his rapier, and, 
saluting the king, as he would any gentleman of the army, he left 
the apartment by the private door, taking care securely to close it 
behind him. 

On reaching the open air, he looked around into the darkness 
i with a scrutinizing glance, as if expecting to be accosted by some 
one who awaited him. 

The jester perceived him, and, leaving Blanche still at the case- 
ment, approached the spot where he stood. 

“ Your man is in my hands, sir,” said the Burgundian ; " shall he 
live or die ?” 

“ Come to me again soon,” was the answer ; " I will then have 
determined.” 

The Bohemian 6lowly disappeared in the darkness, and tke old 
man resumed his place beside his daughter. 

CHAPTER XII THE BETRAYAL. 

He loves me, then, no longer ! All the words 

Earth knows shape but one thought — “ He loves bo longer!”— BulweA. 

Ay ! \ 

Thou hast learned, betimes, the truth, that man’s wild passion 

Makvs'but its sport of viriue, peace, affection: 

And breaks the plaything when the game is done ! — I b. 

Between the acting of a dreadful thing 

Aad the first motion, all the interim is 

Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream.— J ulius C-®sar, 

Farew ell— we meet no more in life !— Farewell '— B vron. 

The kin‘g and the Bohemian girl were now alone. The latter 
still sat quietly upon the table, gazing at her companion, whom she 
evidently supposed the officer of high rank he represented. But, 
‘when he approached her with open arms and a smiling countenance, 
she slipped from her seat, and laughingly eluded his embrace, in 
this manner continued the chase around the table, until the kiBg, 

1 seemingly discouraged by her coyness, himself assumed the seat at 
the table she had forsaken, and, folding his arms, gazed at her, and 
reprovingly shook his head. 

"‘No — no — no,’ do you say I ” exclaimed the king. Well, 
this is remarkable progress I am making in your affections, most 
assuredly. The instant I come within grasping and clasping dis- 
tance, away are you, with your ‘ No — no — no ! ’ Come, Madieine, 
do be a reasonable woman ! Sit down a moment, and let me talk 
to you.” 

“ There, thank you,” continued Francis, as the Bohemian walked 
quietly up to the table and seated herself at a short distance from 
<him, with a listening air, her great black eyes fixed earnestly, if not 
ardently, upon his face. 

"Let me see, Madieine, how long is it since we first met I It 
must be nearly a week, since I first saw these wondeiful eyes of 
yours. And who brought 'us together 1 My Triboulet, I suppose. 
He is always leading me into some mischief ; and, during the six 
months past, it does seem as if the very devil was in the old hunch- 
back. He has kept me in a constant routine of hazardous intrigues, 
from some of which, nothing but a ready sword and a ready tongue 
could have saved me. But, as I was saying, it is a whole week 
since I first saw your black, beautiful eyes ; and, on the word of a 
gentleman, I have thought of nothing else by day, and dreamed of 
nothing else at night. Triboulet would not let me see you before, 
and I am here now, only at my most earnest intercession. I love 
you, Madieine ; I love you alone ! ” 

[Poor Blanche !] 

“ Ha — ha — ha ! ” rang the silvery laugh of the Bohemian. " Love 
' me alone ! And how many scores do you except by mental reserva- 
tion 1 Why, you have the air ol a perfect libertine, young man ! ” 

“Well, Madieine !” replied the king, joining in her laugh; " that 
remark does some credit to your penetration, though not so much 
to your manners. You are right. I am a perfect libertine. lam 
perfectly irresistible ! So you may as well yield at discretion, first 
! as last ! ” 

" Oh, the coxcomb ! ” cried the Bohemian. 

" True, on my word,” replied Francis. “But what a wretched 
old hovel you live in,” he continued: “and your wine,” drinking a 
cup which he had filled from the earthen jug; "is worse than your 
'house, if anything; and that brother of yours — is he your brother, 
Madieine 1 — is worse than both the others put together. Why ! his 
face looks like the muzzle of a bull-dog beside your delicate lips 
and cheeks! I don't believe he is your brother. Why do you live 
with him, and in such a place I N' import e. I shall stay here myself 
to-night, I think.” 

And the king looked up at the ceiliig and around the apartment, 
as if to examine the character of his anticipated lodgings. 

" Stay here, indeed!” resumed the girl; “you will do no such 
1 1 thing, I fancy. You must go home and take care of your wife and 
! children. Besides, we have no room for you here.” 


Of Valois. 


THE NEW WORLD. 


19 


“ My -wife and children ! ” replied Francis, with a smile. “ Good j 
advice, no doubt ; but my Claude herself could hardly help being 
amused at such advice to her recreant lord, in such a place, and 
from such a source. Poor Claude ! ” 

[Poor Blanche !] 

The king seemed lost for some moments ia thought, and the 
Bohemian narrowly watched the changes of his countenance. 

From this reverie, which seemed to be neither painful nor pleas- 
ant — or, rather, which seemed to partake of both feelings — he freed 
himself by a sudden effort, and, gliding rapidly to the side of his 
fair companion, passed his arm around her waist before she appeared 
aware of his design. 

“ No — no — no ! ” she exclaimed, struggling to release herself 
from the eager embrace of her temporary lover, though she had 
plainly but little heart for the effort. “ Be quiet, sir, or you must 
leave me.’' 

“ Why, you pretty gipsey, what a noise you make 1 ” replied the 
king, with a laugh. “It is you who must be quiet. I am sober 
enough.” 

“ Oh, an extraordinary young man for sobriety you are, no doubt !” 
said the girl, gliding from his grasp and resuming her seat, at about 
the same distance as before. 

Francis did not this time pursue her : indeed, he suffered her to 
eiip easily from his arms, when he perceived that such was her pur- 
pose ; nor did he reply. Turning himself, however, he fixed his 
large, full, brilliant eye steadily upon hers. 

The effect of this seemed almost magical. In a few minutes, a 
change came over the countenance of the Bohemian. The smile 
forsook her lip : the flush fled from her cheek. Her dark eye dila- 
ted, and seemed fastened as if by fascination upon the burning orbs 
of her companion; and a shade almost of sadness fell upon her 
speaking features. 

“To morrow,” she murmured; “to morrow,” as if in reply to a 
fancied request of the king. 

“To-morrow, Madleine ! ” was the reply, in a low tone of voice ; 
“ to-morrow may never come to us ! Now, now : oh, let ns love ! 

I et us love ! ” 

[Poor Blanche !] 

Without a word of reply, the Bohemian arose from her seat, and 
gliding softly to the side of the king, placed her hand quietly in his. 

“Ah, what a soft hand ! ” said Francis ; “hew peacefully it sleeps 
in mine ! They seem almost to stifle each other with caresses.” 

“ You are jesting with me, sir,” replied the Bohemian; and her 
voice trembled with emotion. 

“ Madleine ! my beautiful ! ” 

“ No, sir, no : I am net beautiful.” 

“Bo it so. Yet, I love thee: I love thee! Know you not the 
u-ish rapture of love I Know you not of the mystic flame that 
glides kindling along the veins, and plays like a halo around the 
soul 1 Know you not of that electric flash, that nerves the heart and 

fires the brain 1 ” 

The Bohemian gazed at the king during this rhapsody, as if doubt- 
ing how' it was meant, and how it should be received. Her keen 
sense of the ridiculous prevailed, however: her risibles were not 
proof against the preposterous rhodomontade <Jf the court, and she 
burst into a hearty laugh. 

“ On my word, sir, that is very fine ! too fine entirely to be wasted 
on a poor, ignorant girl like me. But tell me, from what book did 

it come 1 ” 

“ Oh, I forget,” replied Francis, not in the least disconcerted, but 
joining in the laugh of his companion. “ One kiss, Madleine ! I 

must have a kiss ! ” 

“ No, no ! Why, sir, you have been drinking, I fancy ! You are 

intoxicated ! ” 

“Yes, with love from your melting eyes, Madleine.” 

“No, you do not love me. You are but jesting, with that half- 
tender, half-sad, half-smiling, jovial air of yours. No, you do not 
love me.” 

“ Yes — yes ; thee — only thee ! ” exclaimed the king, passionately 
clasping her to his breast. 

“ Tnere, that will do ! ” said the Bohemian, striving feebly to free 
herself. 

“ Madleine — Madleine ! be mine — my love — my wife ! ” 

“ Ha — ha — ha ! ” laughed the Bohemian. “And pray, sir, how 
large is your seraglio now ? Your wife, inded ! And, yet, I doubt 
not I love you quite well enough to be your wife — quite as well as 
most wives love their lords, and better than many do.” 

“Madleine — dear Madleine ! ” said the king, clasping her hand in 
his, and again folding her to his bosom. “ What a dear, warm- 
hearted, good-humored, seducing girl, you are ! I would defy St. 
Anthony to withstand your fascinations. I, alas ! never was a saint !” 

The conversation now sank into a whisper. The Bohemian no 
longer resisted the caresses of her royal lover. Sitting upon his 
knee, with her hand upon his shoulder, she listened eagerly to his 
endearments, and with smiles and blushes gazed ardently into his 
eyes. Poor Blanche ! 

Foor Blanche, indeed! She had seen all! she had heard all! 

The whispered words of endearment — the warm caresses — the pas- 
sionate gaze — the low murmur of tenderness — all, all those demon- 
strations of love, which had been to her so precious, she had beheld 
lavished on another — lavished by one for whom she would willingly 
have yielded up her life-blood, drop by drop, had ha asked it ! 


Her brain reeled — a mist came over her sight — her heart sank, 
within her — the blood became chill in her veins — her very soul 
sickened — she could endure the teriible scene no longer — and, pale 
and tottering, she turned away. 

“ Well, ray daughter,” said the old man, after gazing on his child 
with a look of inexpressible tenderness for some moments, in silence, 
as she leaned on his breast, “ What think you now 1 tell me, what 
shall I do 1 ” 

“ Oh. treachery ! ingratitude ! ” murmured the wretched Blanche, 
bursting into tears. “ Oh, my heart ! I believe it is broken ! This 
man has terribly deceived me ! He has no soul — he is false-hearted — 
he is perfidious! My father, he has spoken those very things to this 
shameless woman that he once spoke to me ! Oh, how well do I 
remember all of them — all of his caresses ! Oh, my God ! ” she ex- 
claimed, raising her clasped hands to heaven, “ how could he have 
the heart to make a poor girl like r^, who loved him so dearly, and 
who would have given up her life, as she has what was dearer than 
life, so truly wretched as I am now ! Francis ! Francis ! Gcd will 
surely judge thee for this ! May he forgive thee, for I fear that / 
never can ! ” 

“ Be calm, my poor child, be calm,” said the old man, pressing 
her tenderly to his bosom. “Weep no more ; leave all to me ; you 
shall be avenged.” 

“ My father !” said Blanche, looking up inquiringly into his face.- 

“ Yes, my child, you shall be avenged ; all is ready.” 

“My father, what mean you 1 Why de you look so terribly! 
Whit is your purpose 1 ” 

“ Blanche ! listen to me,” said the old man in a low and hurried 
tone. “Go home — to our old home — as fast as you can ; the dis- 
tance is not far; you know the way ; when there, you will find in a 
small closet of the front chamber, the dress of a page, which you will" 
at once put on, together with the sword. In the same closet you will 
see a small chest, of which this is the key. Open it ; supply your- 
self liberally with gold for a journey. You will find there also a 
picture of your mother; place it next your heart. In the stable you 
will find saddled a strong horse; mount, and start ofl at once on the 
route to Evreux. To morrow I will join you at that place. God 
bless you, my child! God bless you, love!” said the old man, in 
stifled ^bnes, pressing his daughter to his breast. “ Now go ; do all 
as I have bade you ; and, above all, return not here again ; a terrible- 
thing is soon to happen ; go, dear, go ! ” 

“My father ! my father ! ” said Blanche, hanging upon his shoul- 
ders, and gazing with earnest entreaty into his face, “ Oh, will you 
not go with mel I fear ” — 

“ Impossible, Blanche ! ” firmly replied the old man. “ You know, 
my child, that your father would go with you through the world — to 
suffering — to death. You know he never bade you make a sacrifice 
but for your own good. Oh, you know he would cause you no pain, 
willingly. But you must go, Blanche ! you must go alone, as I have 
said to you. God will be your guard, dear ; fear nothing.” 

“I tremble!” said the poor girl, glancing timidly into the sur- 
rounding gloom. 

“ Be calm, my child ; this is inevitable ; you must obey me.” 

“ My father — oh, you will not harm him l ” 

“ Blanche 1 ” 

The poor girl, at this exclamation of mingled reproof and expostu- 
lation, burst into a flood of tears, aRd for some time wept and sobbed 
convulsively on her father’s breast. The old man poured out his 
tears with her’s. 

At length, again embracing her, he kissed her cheek and disen- 
gaged her from his arms. 

“Now, dear, now, you will go 1” he whispered in tones of ten- 
derness, which, perhaps only a parent can realize — a parent, that, 
most tender of all earthly rela’ionships ! “ You will obey me now, 

Blanche 1 We shall soon meet again. There, there — do all as I 
have told you — good night ! ” 

“ Good night, my father ! ” sobbed poor Blanche, striving to sup- 
press her tears ; and, returning her father’s kiss upon his wrinkled, 
and rugged front with lips as soft as rose-leaf, she retired from his. 
arms, and slowly disappeared in the darkness. 

CHAPTER XIII THE NIGHT STORM. 

Let never man be bold enough to say, 

Thus, and no farther, shall my passion stray ; 

The first fault past compels us ime more, 

And guilt grows fate, that was but cftsice before. — A aros Hill- 
Lose I not 

With him what fortune could in life allot ? 

Lose I not hope — life's cordial ? Craeee. 

The old man continued gazing in the direction in which his daugh - 
ter had disappeared, long after she had ceased to be visible. 

“ Oh, my God !” he ejaculated, with hands convulsively clasped to 
his bosom : “ keep, guard, preserve her ! She is pure and guiltless, 
though I, alas ! am not so. Visit not cn her innocent head the sins 
of her father. And, if we have parted for the last time, if we are 
never again to meet upon the earth : then thy will be done ; be thou 
with her, in her loveliness and purity : in life, or in death !” 

The old man’s lips were yet writhing in an agony of supplication, 
which words feebly essayed to express, when a step was heard 
approaching from the river, and, in a few minutes, Saltabadil, the 
Burgundian, was at his side. 

The expression of suffering passed instantly from the face of the 
jester ; and stern, proud, cold, collected, he gazed on the man of 
blood. 


20 


THE NEW WORLD. 


Francis 


Without deigning to exchange with him a word of courtesy, the ' 
old man withdrew a parse from his bosom, and placed it in the 
assassin’s hand. 

“ In that purse are twenty crowns : you demand forty. You will 
receive twenty more when the deed is done. He will pass the night 
here without tail V’ 

Saltabadil examined the heavens in silence. 

“ It will rain in an hour. The tempest and my sister will detain 
fcim.” N 

“ At midnight I return.” 

That is madness. I can cast the body into the Seine.” 

“ I will do that myself,” was the quick response. 

“ As you choose, sir. Men differ in tastes ; you will receive the 
corpse sewn up in a sack.” 

“ At midnight 1” 

“ At midnight.” % 

“ It is well,’, replied the jester, after a thoughtful pause. 

“ Whom call you this young man 1” asked the Burgundian 
abruptly. 

“ His name ?” 

“ His name.” 

“ Perhaps you would like mine, too 1” 

“ I should,” was the sturdy reply. 

“ Well : his name is Crime ; my name is Punishment. Good 
night !” 

The jester turned and walked off. 

“ Cool enough !” muttered the Burgundian. “ He should be a 
bravo himself. Never mind. His gold is good, I suppose.” 

Meanwhile, the sky had become overcast and black, and angry 
clouds were rolling up rapidly from the horizoii over the firmament. 

A vivid flash of lightning succeeded by a rumble of distant thunder, 
broke in on the bravo’s meditations. 

“ Ha ! The storm comes grandly on ! It is nearly over the city 
already. So much the better. The quay will be the more deserted. 
How strangely things look to-night ! And the people whom I changed 
to meet : how they stared at me ! Why was it so I Could it be 
fancy merely I No matter !” 

Again the bravo studied the face of the sky wish a keen and pro- 
longed gaze. Then, turning, he entered the house. 

The occupants c-f the apartment still retained the relative positions 
in which we left therv. ; the Bohemian half-reclining in the arms of 
the king. At the step of her brother on the threshold, she sprang to 
her feet and released herself from his embrace. 

A peal of thunder wa3 heard in the distance. 

“ It will rain to-night : observed the bravo. 

“ Good ! Lit it rain !” cried Francis. “ It pleases me, sir host, 
to occupy your chamber !” 

“ It pleases him !” rejoined the Bohemian playfully. “ Why, he 
takes on himself the airs of a king !” 

Will not yoivr family be alarmed at your absence, sir 1 asked 
Saltabadil. 

“ I have nsne, thank Providence !” was the laughing response. 

“ I must have your bed, my good fellow : “ you sir,” continued the 
king, as the rain now began rattling in large drops upon the roof : 

“ you can go sleep with your horses, if you have any, or with the devil, 
if he will let you.” 

“ Indeed 1” replied the assassin, with a significant smile. 

This meaning smile did not escape the penetrating glance of the 
Bohemian girl. She became very pale, and, approaching the king, , 
she pronounced in a low and emphatic tone, while pretending to be 
engaged in lighting a lamp, the single monosyllable, 

“ Go /” 

“ Why ! it rains !” cried Francis. “ We shall have a perfect tem- 
pest ! You would not have me go out on a night when you would 
not turn a decent poetfroni^your door — would you, Madieine 1 How 
dreadfully black the sky is !” he continued, looking out at _ the 
window ; “ and how vividly it lightens !” 

“Let him stay whispered the bravo to his sister, unobserved by 
the king. “Twenty crowns of gold I have already received for him: 

I shall receive twenty more at midnight.” Then turning graciously 
to the king, “ If I may offer my poor chamber to my lord, I shall be 
most happy if he will accept it.” 

“Oh, don’t disturb yourself about accommodations, my fine fellow,” 
replied Francis, laughing, “ I have no doubt you fry in that same 
chamber of yours in J sly, and, by way of variety, freeze in December, j 
Am’I not right 1” 

“Quite right, sir. Will you please t* try it V’ 

“Oh, by ail means. Let ua see.” 

Saitabadil took the lamp from the table and began ascending the 
rickety stairs. The king tarried fer an instant to embrace Madieine ; 
and whisper a few syllables in her ear, and then ascended to the 
upper apartment. 

“ There is your bed, sir, and a chair, and table said the bravo, , 
pointing to the three articles of household furniture, as the king en- 1 i 
tered the chamber. 

“ And how many legs have they all 1” asked Francis, with a merry i 
laugh, after gazing alternately at the wretched articles before him | 
“ Three — six — nine and a half — three-quarters, perhaps — admirable ! j j 
I say, my honest fellow, was this furniture of yours at the battle of |( 
* Marignano, that it is so pitifully crippled 1” 

Then approaching the window, through which the lightning was ; 
flashing with fearful brilliancy — 


“ What a night ! heavens ! how black it is. and how it lightens ! 
No casement — no shutter — no curtains ! Why, one might a3 well 
sleep in the open air ! It would be impossible to treat the elements 
in more hospitable fashion than you do, my fine fellow j” he contin- 
ued, addressing his companion, who had remained standing upon a 
single spot, gravely listening to the comments of the king without 
reply. “ Well, well, this is better than going home, I suppose ,• so, 
good night!” 

“Good night, sir,” replied Saltabadil, placing his lamp upon the 
table, “May God keep you !” 

And the bravo went out, closed the door carefully behind him, 
and his steps were heard descending the creaking stairs. 

“ Ah, how tired I am yawned the king when alone, unbuckling 
his svrord-belt and preparing to throw off his doublet. “And how 
singularly sleepy I feel. I should think the wine I have drank to- 
night drugged, were not the idea so ridiculous. Why drug wine in 
a hovel like this ! a good knife would serve the same purpose. No, 
it can hardly be the wine ; and yet I am desperately sleepy he con- 
tinued, drawing off his boots and extending himself upon the bed. 

“ It must be the scenes of the evening. This leve is wonderfully 
exhausting. What a superb creature is that Madieine ! she almost 
makes me forget my peor little Blanche. And, yet, she resembles 
Blanche — resembles her in many respects, although their style of 
beauty is so utterly dissimilar. There is the same passionate eye ; 
the rounded form ; ths same full lip : but there is not — oh, no, there 
is not the same sweet, innocent, trusting smite on the lip cf the Bo- 
hemian girl as on that of my dear, darling, beautiful Blanche ! Ah ! 

I am a sad, sad rover ! I do pray that Blanche may never discover 
what an unfaithful lover she has, for her sake ; for, verily, I believe 
it would kill her.” 

The king lay for some time as if absorbed in thought. At length 
he roused himself with a deep sigh. 

“ No more of this — no more of this ! I will think only of Madieine 
to-night. She is a queen of a woman ; I hope that brother of her’s 
did not fasten the door,” he continue? 5 , raising himself and looking 
closely at the latch. “No ; all right he added, as»if satisfied with 
the result of his investigation; and, again lying down, his deep 
aid regular breathing, after a few yawns and sighs, very shortly indi- 
cated that he slept. 

Meanwhile the storm burst upon the city with all ths^fury of an 
autumnal tempest. The rain came down in flccds ; the lightning 
glared ; the thunder rolled incessantly. 

In the chief apartment of the cabaret below, sat the Bohemian girl 
at the table, her head leaning upon her hand, as she gazed upon the 
expiring embers on the hearth, as if in deep and melancholy refec- 
tion. 

Opposite at the table, sat Saltabadil, his eyes fixed stupid’*' -poo-*, 
the cup and jug left by the king, and of which he seemed to havA 
been making a liberal use : the cup was the same, but the wine- 
vessel was evidently not. 

Minute, after minute — a whole hour passed away, and the silent 
pair still maintained their relative positions. 

The girl at length broke silence. 

“ What a noble young man !” 

“Very !” was the brief reply. 

“ Must he die, brother 1” 

“ He must!” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ I receive forty crowns for his corpse ” 

“ Oh, he is worth twice forty crowns.” 

“ Perhaps he is. Go up and see if he sleeps. He had a sword — 
bring it down.” 

Madieine obeyed. Taking the lamp, she ascended to the cham- 
ber, and, shading the light with her hand, gazed long and mourn- 
fully on the quiet countenance of the slumbering monarch. 

“ Poor fellow, how soundly he sleeps ! But he will sleep sounder 
soon !” 

Her eyes suffused with tears, she took up the sword of the king, 
which lay upon the chair, and descended the stairs. 

Meanwhile, through the rage and fury of the tempest, a figure 
closely enveloped in a cloak, and in the garb of a traveller, was 
slowly approaching the old mansion, guided by the incessant glare ©f 
the electric flame. The stature and proportions of this individual 
seemed too slight for those of a man, though such was the garb ; 
and, though accoutred as for a journey, he plodded blindly on, as if 
without any definite aim, regardless of the inequalities of the route, 
and seemingly buried in thought. 

“ ‘A terrible thing is to happen here to-night !' said my father!” — 
thus soliloquized the wayfarer — “What meant he 1 IVhat terrible 
thing 1 To whom did he allude as the victim ? Alas ! I know not ; 
but I do know that Francis — my ow n Francis, cruel though he has 
been to me — will pass here the night. And did not my father speak 
of him 1 Oh, my father, pardon thy unhappy child ! Thou art no 
longer here, and I disobey thee in thus returning ! But this was in- 
evitable. There is a wilder, more resistless love than even that of a 
child to its parent, fend though that love mav be, and self-sacrificing 
though it often is. And yet — and yet, I have begun to know*, young 
as I am, that a parent’s love for a child is tenderer than all else. I 
would give my life to secure happiness to my poor old father ! I 
have given, alas ! more than my life to secure that of my lover. 
How strange it seems, that one born and reared as I have been, in 
the most secluded retirement — leading a life as quiet and as solitary 


Of Valois. 


THE NEW WORLD. 


21 


as that of my birds and my flowers — ignorant of the great world — 
it3 cares, ita pleasures, its vices — should thus, within the space of 
one year, have been plunged headlong ints that dark and troubled 
sea, and have been brought to experience sensations of rapture an4 ■ 
of agony, of which my heart had never dreamed of before ! My in- 
anocence — my virtue — my earthly happiness — alas ! I have been be- 
reft of them all ! Within me all is tempest, even as all is tempest 
without. And does love always leave the heart in which hi3 flames i 
have been kindled thus in ruins behind him, as he has mine 1 Of all 
this wild conflagration of feeling, nothing now but a few smoulder- 
ing ashes remains. Francis loves me no longer! What agony there 
is in that thought ! Through all the sufferings and shame of the last 
half-year — and, God knows, they have been fully proportioned to my 
grief — the certainty that Francis loved me has been a comfort and 
consolation in my darkest hours. But now — oh, but for his unborn 
infant, how willingly would I die and never see him more ! What 
a frightful night !” she continued, gazing timidly around. “ What 
dreadful thunder ! Well, it is meet it should be so. I am glad it is 
so. A sweet, quiet night, like some I have known, would only 
mock my miserable heart. How it lightens ! Ah, there is the ] 
house. Let me press on. There are few things that a despairing, 
loving woman will not attempt. And I who trembled like a leaf, 

even at my own shadow but no more — let me hasten — oh, while 

I have been delaying, death may have been busy !” 

Guided by the light of the lamp which gleamed out from the win- 
dow, Blanche drew nigh to the old mansion with trembling steps, 
and resumed her location to view all that transpired within. 

CHAPTER, XIV THE SACRIFICE. 

Ere the bat hath flown 

His cloister’d flight; ere, to black Hecate’s summons, 

The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums, 

Hath run" night’s yawning peal, there shall be done 
A deed of dreadful note.— Macbeth, Act III, Scene II. 

Murder most foul, as in the best it is ; I 

But this most foul, strange, and unnatural. — Hamlet, Act T, See. IV. 
Is there no way to save thee ? Minutes fly, 

And thou art lost! — thou! — Marino Falikro. 

Thou hast killed the sweetest innocent 

That ere did lift up eye. — Othello, Act V. 


looked at,” said the bravo, laughing. “ I wish you could only see 
him; he does look so comical, the little fellow, with his hump be* 
fore, and his hump behind, and his bandy legs, and his squinting 
eyes.” 

“ My brother, it is a shame to kill such a handsome fellow as our 
guest up stairs, for such an old Beelzebub as you describe !” 

“ I agree with you, Madleine ; but I have promised this same old 
Beelzebu-b to deliver up to him this same handsome fellow, in a sack, 
at midnight. I have received for the service twenty crowns already, 
and am to receive twenty crowns more on the delivery. I must de- 
liver him dead, at midnight, therefore, in a sack, you see ; that’s as 
clear as sunshine.” 

“ Why not kill Beelzebub himself, when he comes back at mid- 
night, with his twenty crowns 1 ” 

“ Oh, my poor father ! ” sighed Blanche. 

“ What say you 1 ” continued the girl. “Would not your object 
be attained in one way as well as in the other 1 ” 

Saltabadil turned around, and, for a moment, gazed gravely into 
the girl’s face, as if astonished and offended, to satisfy himself that 
she was serious in her request. , 

“For whom do you take me, my sister 1 This from you ! Am I 
a bandit — a liar — a thief 1 to kill a customer who pays me, and is 
like to employ me again 1 Did I not say that I had promised ? My 
promise is as inviolable to me as the king’s is to him — far more, 
perhaps. I may be an assassin, but I am no traitor. I abhor 
treachery ! ” 

“ Well, since ysu are so conscientious in your scruples, and deem 
it duty to do murder, or anything else, to satisfy an employer, sup- 
pose we sew up that fcggot in the sack 1 In the storm and darkness, 
Beelzebub will mistake it for his dead man, an-d will be satisfied 
with you.” 

“An excellent device, truly! What fool is there fool enough 
to mistake a faggot for a corpse, though the darkness were like to 
that of hell itself 1 Why, a fagot is hard — dry — still' — unyielding — 
rough — ragged, and has no appearance of ever having had life in it. 
A corpse, on the contrary, is heavy — unwieldy — chilly — irregular; 
and such a corpse as I ought to deliver, would be damp with blood, 
too.” 


The Bohemian and her bandit brother retained their positions, 
is before described, beside the hearth. 

“My brother,” at length said the girl, looking up from her reve- 
rie, and breaking the silence. 

“ Well, Madleine.” 

“ Know you of what I have been thinking 1” 

“ How the devil should 1 1 

“ Gaegs.” 

■“ Nonsense !” 

“ That young man” 

“ I’ll warrant it. • You are too old for such folly, Madleine.” 

“ What a noble fellow he is; and how handsome and gallant. I 
do believe he loves me — I am sure I love him. He is sleeping as 
unsuspectingly up stairs a3 a tired child. Let us not kill him, my 

brother !” 

“ My God!” ejaculated Blanche. 

The bravo said nothing, but rising from his seat, he went to the 
old press and drew forth what appeared to be a large sack of coarse 
cloth, somewhat torn. 

“ Sew up for me the rents in this sack,” was his cool request, pre- 
senting the cloth to the girl. 

“For what purpose, my brother I” she asked, with pallid lips. 

“ In order that it may be ready to receive the corpse of your 
Apollo, when I shall have got him ready for it. A heavy stone at 
the bottom of the bag will then soon carry him to the bottom of the 
Seine.” 

“ But, my brother” 

“You must not meddle in this affair, I tell you, Madleine. It is 
no concern of yours.” 

“ But, if” 

“I will not hear a syllable. Were one to listen to you, he would 
never do his duty. Sew up the sack, as I bade you !” 

“My God!” again ejaculated Blanche, who, at the casement, 
heard and saw all that transpired. “ Is this a pair of humanized be- 
ings on the face of the earth 1 or, am I listening to the damned in 
hell 1“ 

“ I obey you, my brother,” said Madleine, quietly sitting down 
and taking the sack to repair it. “But, let us talk a little on the 
matter.” 

“Very well.” 

“Have you any spite — any grudge — any ill feeling toward this 
cavalier 1” 

“ Who 1 me? Oh, no! On the contrary, his frank and noble] 
bearing, which seems to have fascinated you so much, has quite pre- 
possessed me in his favor. It was my own profession once, until I 
descended from a wholesale commission business into a snug retail 
trade on my own account.” 

“ You have no desire, then, to kill him V* 

“I have no desire either way. It is a mere matter of business, I 
tell you.” 

“ You kill him because you are paid for it, do you notl” 

“ To be sure. How simple you arc become.” 

“ And your employer” , - i j 

“ Is about as hideous aa old hunchback, Madleine, a3 you ever.’, 


“ How cold it is,” murmured Blanche. 

“My brother!” exclaimed the Bohemian, throwing down the sack 
from her hands, and clasping them in the attitude of entreaty, “ Spare 
this young man — for my sake, spare him ! ” 

“ Impossible ! ” 

“ Do you suppose there is any being on this earth who loves you 
as I do 1 Is there any one on this earth whom you love as you do 
me I Our past life has been a strange — a dreadful one ; and it has 
linked us very closely ; yes, crim<* has its fetters as well as affection. 
This, this is almost the only petition I ever made to you. Do not 
refuse it. In mercy to your miserable sister, spare the life of this 
young man ! ” 

“It cannot be l” was the cold and resolute reply. 

“ My brother, it must be ! ” responded the girl, in tones low and 
hurried, but resolute as his own. 

“Come, come, Madleine; he must die, and you must be quiet; 
obey me ! ” 

“ I will not obey you ! This young man shall not be murdered, 
unless I share his fate ! I tell you I love hirn ; and, it seems, you 
have yet to learn what a woman will encounter for a man she loves. 
He shall be aroused ! he shall escape ! ” 

“Madleine, listen to me — listen to reason!” said the bravo, as- 
tonished at a spirit in his sister, the existence of which he had never 
suspected before. 

“ No, no, no ! I will listen to no one, until this poor young man is 
safe ! ” 

And, seizing the sword of Francis, which lay beside her on the 
table, she placed herself, with a determined air, at the foot cf the 
! staircase. Her face was pale, but her lip was firm, and her large 
eyes were dazzling in their dark brilliancy. 

Checked in his purpose by this untooked for obstacle, Saltabadil 
1 gazed in astonishment for a moment on the excited woman, and then, 
as if satisfied that resistance to her determination would be vain, he 
returned quietly to his seat, to devise some method by which circum- 
stances so conflicting might be reconciled. 

“ Let us sse,” he began ; “ the state of the case is this : the 
hunchback has engaged me to kill this man, and has partly paid me 
for it; at midnight he comes to pay me in full, and to receive his 
corpse ; it is clear, then, that somebody must be killed; Madleine 
will not permit that somebody to be her handsome lover. Well, who 
then shall it be 1 that’s the question. There is no one here but our- 
selves ; it is not probable that any one will come here between now 
and midnight; it is, nevertheless, possible ; suppose some one should 
come — a traveller — a beggar — a robber — a reveller — no matter 
whom, and demand lodgings of us, him might I kill and sew up in 
the sack instead of the handsome lover. Beelzebub, as you call 
: him — the name is a capital one — would, of course, find out nothing 
I of all this ; he is net so familiar with the features of his foe, I fancy, 
as to be able to distinguish them by the sense cf touch, through the 
I coarse sackcloth, in a night like this, or any other, as to that.. The 
I old rascal would rejoice just th/ same, therefore, provided he cast 
a corpse into the Seine, whether it was in reality that of his dearest 
I friend or his bitterest foe. There, my sister, that’s the best scheme. 
T.can devise ; indeed, it is all I can do for you.” 


22 


Francis 


THE NEW WORLD. 


“ And whom, in mercy’s name, suppose you, will pass such a lonely i 
place as this is, on such a fearful night, at so late an hour — much I 
more, who will stop 1 ” 

“ It is the sole chance for your lover.” 

“Why am I thus permitted to be tempted 1” ejaculated the 
■unhappy Blanche, who listened to every word. “Is it the will of 
God that I should die, that He subjects me to all this ? Must I take 
this terrible step for one so ungrateful 1 Oh, I am too young to 
die ! ” 

“It is a wild thought, my brother. No one will come to-night.” 

“ Then, the young man dies ! ” 

“ Oh, horror ! ” ejaculated Blanche, with quivering tones ; “ what, 
ichat am I to do ? Shall I call the wateh I None would hear me on 
a night like this : even the guardians of Paris sleep. Besides, this 
dreadful man would denounce my father as a murderer; that thought 
again comes up ; but, oh, I cannot die — I am not prepared to die — I 
am not willing ! There are many reasons, and one reason that 
make3 the idea of death overwhelm me with horror ! I have much 
yet to do in life. My poor old fa’her, if I am taken away, who will 
console and comfort him? And, then, to die; thu3 to die, so young; 
while I am yet but sixteen years of age ! It is frightful ! No, no ; 

I cannot die ! Oh, God, now the iron enters my soul ! ” 

At that moment, a blow of the clock sounded from the old tower 
of Notre Dame, immediately succeeded by two others. 

“The hour sounds from Notre Dame,” said Saltabadil ; “ it is 
three-quarters after eleven. No one will come after midnight. Do 
you hear any noise without 1 ” 

“Hark ! I thought I heard a groan,” replied the Bohemian girl. 

Both listened attentively for some minutes. 

“You mistook, my sister. It was only the mutterings of the 
thunder at a distance. This business must be finished. I have now 
less than one fourth of an hour for work.” 

Daring the conversation which has been detailed, Madleine had 
left her station at the foot of the staircase, and had laid down the 
weapon of the king. This the bravo had secured ; and, in anticipa- 
tion of such a result, no doubt, had he suggested the improbable 
scheme of saving his victim’s life. Regardless of the entreaties and 
threats of his sister, he now placed his foot upon the ground step of 
the staircase, prepared to ascend. 

“A little while— only a little while, my brother ; wait, and I am 
sure some one will coaie ! ” entreated Madleine, clinging to the gar- 
ments of the assassin. 

“ What ! ” murmured Blanche ; “ this woman weeps, and entreats 
for a life, which to her is ?.s nothing, and which it is impossible for 
her to save; and I — I who have slumbered on h s bosom, — I to whom 
he is dearer than life — I who can save him, hesitate ! And why 
should /live 1 What charm hath this miserable life far me 1 Fran- 
cis loves me no longer ! Yes, I will die : I will die ! And if he is 
ever told who saved him, he will surely remember his poor Blanche 
when she is gene.” 

“ I can delay no longer,” said the bravo ; “ it is impossible/’ 

“If I only knew how they would kill me,” continued Blanche. | 
“Does one suffer long-1 What is the sensation 1 Do they stab in 
the breast 1 Oh, God ! Yet, be it so. This wrc.ich.ed heart of mine 
cannot be more agoniz d than it now is, though cleft in twain.” 

“My sister,” again exclaimed Saltabadil, striving t» disengage 
himself from the grasp of the girl ; “ this is madness — folly ! What 
would you I should do 1 Think you Providence would send any 
human being on a night like this, at this hour, to such a place, 
simply to be sacrificed for this young man 1 ” 

“ How cold the rain is ! ” said Blanche, as she crept along to the 
door. “ Hew dreadful to die when one is so cold ! My blood is 
freezing! But it must be done ! ” 

And Blanche struck a feeble blow upon the door. 

“ Hark ! ” said Madleine ; “ some one surely knocked.” 

“ Nonsense ! It was only the wind moaning, or the river rushing, 
or the thunder muttering. Let me go.” 

Again Blanche struck upon the door, louder than before. 

“ Some one did knock !” joyfully cried the Bohemian, springing 
lo the casement, which she at once threw open. 

“This is wonderful ! ” muttered the bravo. 

“Who is there 1 .” cried the girl. 

“ Lodging for the night ! ” feebly rejoined Blanche. 

“He will sleep a long slumber,” said the bravo. 

“ Yes, his ‘ lodging ’ will, indeed, be a long one,” said the Bohe- 
mian. “ It is a young man, I think, by his voice. Shall I open the 
door 1 Poor fellow; he knocks at his tomb.” 

“ Nay, stay an instant. My knife : where is it 1 ” 

Going to the press, so often alluded to, he soon produced a large 
knife, the edge of which he began sharpening upon a broken piece 
of a scythe in the stead of the usual utensil for such a purpose. This 
conflict of steel upon steel rang keenly on the ear, notwithstanding 
all efforts to deaden it. 

“ Oh, God ! oh, God ! they are sharpening the knife to stab me !” 
murmured Blanche. “ What ! can it bs that I am about to die ? or, 
is this only a ( horrible dream ? No — no — it i3 no dream! It is a, 
dreadful reality ! I am on the very threshold of another world. 
Oh, God ! ” she ejaculated, dropping upon her knees ; “ pardon 
thou me my many offences, even as now I give pardon unto all those, 
who have, in any manner, done evil to me. And wilt thou forgive 
th°m — even those who are about to deprive me of life. And he 
whom I have so dearly loved— forgivs and bless him ; and, if it will’ 


render him happier, oh, let him forget me : let him forget that we 
ever loved ; may he never know my fate. Make him a good man ; 
may Ins power never depart from him ; may he live long in pros- 
periiy ; may he never know the misery he has caused to me, and 
may he die a more peaceful death, than she who is about to die for 
hi® 1 - And my poor old father : he will be lonely when I am gone ; 
oh, God, keep — console — bless him ! ” 

A noise of footsteps was heard within the house, and Blanche rose 
to her feet, and again knocked at the door. 

“Quick! He will leave!” harriedly whispered the Bohemian 
girl. 

“ That will do, I think,” said Saltabadil, trying the edge of the 
blade he had been sharpening upon the table. I will conceal myself 
behind the door, and await his entrance.” 

The assassin did as he proposed; and, with uplifted knife, stood 
ready to plunge it from behind into the breast of the person entering. 

“ I wait the signal,” said the girl, her hand upon the bolt of the 
door. 

“All ready ! open ! ” was the reply. 

“ Enter ! ” said the Bohemian, unfastening the door. 

4 “ Oh, Gad ! pardon them — pardon me — my father, pardon me ! ” 
ejaculated Blanche, as her foot was on the threshold. 

The arm of Saltabadil descended — there was a heavy blow — a 
groan — a deluge of blood — and all was over ! 

CHAPTER XV THE AVENGER. 

One sole desire, one passion now remain?, 

To keep life’s fever still wifhiti bis veins; 

Vengeance ! — dire vengeance, for the act which cast 
O’er him and all he hoped that ruinous blast. Moose, 

“ Darkly the night sweeps on. No thought of sleep. 

Steals to my heart.” 

“ Hark to the midnight’s funeral knell! How, through the roar 
Of winds and thunder, thrills that single sound, 

Solemnly audible !” 

“ Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul— Farewell !” 

The storm was over. The rain had ceased. The thunder mut- 
tered feebly in the distance. At long intervals, the lightning glared 
through the gloom, mantling the scene with lurid and leaden, though 
momentary, illumination. The heavy clouds were trooping off to- 
the north in broken masses, like the shattered squadrons of a deserted 
army ; and, here and there, for an instant, through the divided ranks 
— as they drifted on, gleamed out a single star. Through the dark- 
ness came the hurried rush of the Seine swollen by the recent tem- 
pest, as it rolled heavily on; and a dense mist was rising from its 
waters. 

All was still around the old cabaret. Not a sound brojt€ 
silence, save the regular dripping of water from its eaves, the sullen 
splash of the swollen river, and the low rumble of the distant thunder. 
All wa3 dark and deserted. The house was closed, and not a soli- 
| tary lamp gleamed from the casement. Around that old and gloomy 
; structure rested the silence and the solitude of death. 

Along the road, leading to the Aubergc, were heard approaching 
footsteps; and soon a single traveller appeared through the mist. 

“The deed is done!” he muttered: “At length, then, am I 
avenged ! For full seven months have I watched and waited. I have,” 
continued the jester of the court, “shrouded the misery cf the damned 
beneath the jokes, and jibes, and jeers of an idiot : weeping tears of 
blood beneath a laughing mask. But now — now — ” continued the 
jester, drawing nigh to the door of the Auberge, “what a thin par- 
tition separates me from the full fruition of my long-nourished and 
dearly cherished revenge ! Through that door will the pledge cf 
gratified vengeance be placed in my hands. It is the hour. I am 
on the spot. The deed is done. As I drew nigh, the struggle of 
death fell on my ear. Then all was still — dark and still.” 

“ Why do I now delay to claim my prize 1 Is it that I may feast 
in imagination on the banquet of revenge that is served up to me T 
If the anticipation is so rapturous, how overwhelming will be the 
reality ! Ah, Love and Hate ! the sweet draughts which the cup of 
Life proffers to the lip are mingled by ye ! But the rapture of love 
is les3 lasting than that of revenge.” 

“ What a night it has been ! A night of tumult, and mystery, and 
blood ! A tempest in heaven — a murder upon the earth ! And tuck ' 
a murder ! Well might the flames of this revenge blaze up with 
those of the frenzied elements ! What a monarch has ceased to exist ! 

A sovereign on whom has hung the destinies cf twenty others, and 
on whose will has depended the peace or strife of half the world! 
Now, that he is no more ; now that the great centripets^ power 
which ha9 held kingdoms in their orbits hath ceased to exist — how 
will all things rush into their primal chaos ! The first has been with- 
drawn — the crash will be awful! And mine is the deed ! It is this 
hand of mine which has plunged all Europe in blood, and tears, and 
wretchedness for long years to come, striving with convulsed and im- 
potent struggles to regain her equilibrium. It has been at the touch 
of my finger that this volcano has thrown open its devastating crater. 
Superior intelligence — beings of the air will look down on this tem- 
pest from their viewless homes, and, in amazement will ask, “ \V ho 
has thus terrified Gharles and Henry, and Leo and Doria, and Soly- 
jman the Magnificent, the Lord of Asia 1 AVhat Caesar, what Alanc,. 
what Saint or Saracen, has tumbled thus these kingdoms the one 
upon the other 1 What army of Titans again piles up the wooded 
feiion upon Osral What terrible will thus shakes the world at its 


Of Vauus. 


THE NEW WORLD. 


23 


pleasure 1 All, rejoice, vile jester, in thy fathomless hate ! The 
vengeance of a fool convulses the world !” 

At this moment the clock in the tower of Notre Dame pealed 
heavily out over the Seine, through the last muttering3 of the storm. 

“ Midnight ! the half hour after midnight,” said the old man, as 
he counted the strokes of the bell. 

Stepping briskly up to the door of the tavern, he gave a quick rap 

“ Who comes here 1” asked a voice within, after a considerable 
pause. 

“ It is your man,” was the brief answer. 

The lower half of the door slowly opened, and the head of a man 
appeared. 

“ You must not enter. I will be with you in a moment.” 

The head vanished, and, almost immediately, the form of Saltaba- 
dil upon hi3 knees, dragging a heavy object, could be dimly distin- 
guished through the narrow aperture. 

“ Heavy enough !” he muttered. “Help me to bear it a few 
steps.” 

With eager aid the old man assisted to carry the oblong and un- 
wieldy mass, shrouded in a saek, to the bank of the river. 

“ Your man is in this sack,” said the bravo, as the burden was laid 
upon the quay. 

“ Joy ! Let me see him ! A light !— quick !” 

“By no means*!” replied the assassin. 

“ Whom fear you V* 

“ The night-watch. Devil ! no light, if you please. It would 
-cause plague enough. Now the money, sir.” 

The old man handed the Bohemian a purse, and, while he was 
counting the contents, bent earnestly down to examine the sack. 

“ Shall I assist to cast the body into the Seine 1” asked the bravo, 
after satisfying himself that he was not cheated, and putting up the 
purse. 

“ I can do it alone,” was the abrupt reply. 

“But two can do it easier than one,” said Saltabadil. 

“ A toe whom one bears to his grave, is not a heavy burthen.” 

“Well, sir: well,” replied the Bohemian slowly. “ Yours is a 
strange taste; but you Can indulge it. Da not cast the sack in there 
however,” he added, pointing to the parapet : “ the water is shallow 
besides, there is a back current, which will threw up the body os the 
shore. But there, j u3t above, ia that corner, the water is deep and 
sure enough, Be quick! good night!” 

The Bohsmian walked slowly into his house and shut the door. 

The old man was alone with the corpse. 

When all was still, he gazed anxiously into the gloom around, and 
then fixed his eyes on the motionless mas3 at his feet. 

^..AGDracl! he is dead ! Shall I examine his face by the flashes of 
lightning 1 It might be well But no,” he continued, bending down 
and passing his hand along the sack : it were useless ; I feel assured 
it is he : my heart tells me it is my foe. Is my foe. I am wrong : 
i oa : my foe. He is crushed, he is my foe no longer.” 

Then drawing up his form to its full stature, the old man planted 
his foot firmly upen the corpse, and exclaimed — 

“ Behold ! Paris, France, Christendom : behold this scene ! A 
jester and a kiog ! And such a king : the first of all king3 ! the 
ruler of monarchs ! There, under my heel do I hold him, and the 
Seine will be his sepulchre, and a tattered sack his sarcophagus. 
What long and lingering astonishment to all Europe will the events 
of this night oeeasion ! Henceforth let none think to read futurity. 
Despot or slave, monarch or fool ; creatures of destiny all ; by chance 
are we, placed here, by chance taken hence. One of the proudest 
of earth’s majesties, the prince with the heart of flame; the 
lord of the battle-field ; beneath whose tread the walls of cities have 
crumbled ; in an obscure and deserted corner of his dominions, in 
the silence and darkhes3 of the night, hath passed ingloriously away 
The hero of A&rignano ; the young conqueror, who, when but 
twenty years of age, led the black bands of Suabia over the Alps to 
claim his heritage ; who, during two whole nights and one whole day, 
led on hi3 fiery squadrons against the serried Swiss; and when the 
morning dawned, wounded and weary — with the stump of the last 
of three Spanish blades — stood a victor on the battle-plain, amid the 
bodies of^ ten thousand of his slaughtered foes; the hero of Marig- 
nano ; ot that combat de giants, which the veteran of twenty conflicts 
pronounced so terrible, that all the others were only the quarrels of 
boy3; the hero of Marignano, whose renown was the star of chi- 
valry. God, how strangely does it seem that his proud spirit should 
thus havexdgparted from the earth ! Borne hence by a single blow, 
lie who l£d laughed to scorn the assaults of hundreds — borne hence 
in the flower of his years, and in the prime of his power, lord of the 
bravest nation, and idol of the most brilliant court in Europe — borne 
hence, like an unfortunate infant, strangled at its birth by the knotted 
tresses of its unnatural mother: in silence, in secrecy, in mystery, 
in a midnight of tempest, by a hand unknown, unsuspected, never to 
he laid bare !” . 


‘Francis of Orleans! Francis of Valois! Francis the First, of 
France ! He is lost ! He is lost !’ 

“ Wonderful ! — Wonderful ! He died of a humpback fool!” 

The ojd man clasped his hands, and, for some moments, stood: 
gazing on the shrouded corse at his feet, as if buried in reflection. 

A flash of hghtning, succeeded by the low muttering of distant 
thunder, seemed to recall his thoughts, and to send them otF in a diffe- 
rent channel. 

“ My daughter !” he murmured in tones of heart-broken pathos; 
“ my poor, lost daughter ! But you are learfully avenged ! They 
never dreamed of this. Blood ! what need had rfie foolish old man of 
blood ? A handful of gold — a few mocking words of sympathy — a 
laugh and a jest, and the worth of his ruined child would be paid, 
and the old lather would be satisfied. Ah! fools— fools! The virtue 
of that child to me, Francis of Valois, wts of more value than was 
the diadem of France and Navarre to you. My Blanche — my beau- 
tiful child ! the spoiler came to thee, in thy loveliness and trustful- 
ness, and wound himself, like a serpent, around thee. He took thee 
in thine honor and happiness. He has returned thee bereft of one ; 
and, alas ! despoiled for ever of the other. But he will never harm 
thee more. Thou art avenged, my daughter : nor thou alone. Ah ! 
that old man’s curse ! Terribly hath that malison descended on me, 
and on thee, Francis! terribly hath that old man’s .prophecy been 
fulfilled on thee ! He is avenged on thee as on me ; ay, we are all 
avenged on the infamous violator — fathers and children — the gray- 
haired jester, and the gray-haired noble — the extinguished star of a 
brilliant court, and the crushed flower of a lowly cottage. All are 
avenged, and the old jester hath done, it all, and he now plants his 
misshapen foot on the neck of her polished and princely ravisher ! 

“ Because the fool feigned to have forgotten all, did the nobler 
fool delude himself that all was forgiven 1 He fancied, forsooth, that 
the wrath of a feeble old man would soon be exhausted — that his 
memory of wrong was weak, and his power to avenge that wrong 
was weaker ; and, in dreamless security, he slumbered on. But the 
hour of retribution came at last. It was a long struggle — a struggle 
of the feeble with the powerful, and the feeble hath prevailed : of 
the crafty with the mighty, and the crafty is conqueror : of the ser- 
pent with the eagle, and the rapacious bird is dragged from his eyrie 
in the clouds to the den of the rocks. The deformed monster, that 
pressed his lips to the soles of the monarch’s feet, hath plunged hia 
fang of poison into the monarch’s heart. He has triumphed — the 
misshapen buffoon — the hideous hunchback — the miserable moiety 
of a half human form — that revolting lump of disproportionate flesh 
that startles men by its resemblance to a lower order of creation — 
that doubtful animal to whom is said — ‘Dog!’ Ha! ha! ha! it is 
even such a thing that hath triumphed, and is, at this moment, victor 
over the most exalted sovereign of Europe ! 

“ When once vengeance, like a minister frem hell, hath possessed 
the breast, the heart most lifeless becomes all life ; the form most 
hideous is transformed ; the being most degraded is exalted ; the 
naked fool becomes clothed in garments of terror ; the most debased 
is the most desperate ; the most cowardly the most deadly ; the 
timid slave draws forth hi3 gleaming hate as from a scabbard ; the 
cat becomes the tiger ; the contemptible buffoon becomes the avenger 
of wrong ! Ah ! that all this could be heard and felt by the lifeless 
lump at my feet, and yet continue on the lifeless lump that it is! 

“ And now to the river abhorred mas3 of sin and corruption, and see 
if you can discover in its depths some current that remounts to St. 
Denis ! To the Seine, Francis of F ranee ! ” 

And the old man seized the body and dragged it to the water’s 
edge. 

CHAPTER. XVI.. ..THE DISCOVERY. 


They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 
Her hurrying hand had left — ’t was bill a spot — 

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 

Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime— ’t is blood ! 


Ths Corsair. "3 


Oh ! ’t was a sight, that would have bleached , 

Joy’s rosy cheek forever! M.‘G. Lewis. 

Oh me, Oh me ! — my child, my only life, 

Revive, look ud, or I will die with thee !— 

Help, help: call help. Romeo and Juliet, Act’iv. 

At the moment when the sack, containing the corpse, was 
balanced upon the edge of the old parapet of disjointed stones, skirt- 
ing the water, preparatory to its final plunge into the deep and. 
turbid stream, the attention of the jester was arrested by a noise 
behind him, and he turned his eyes in the direction whence it came. 
The sound proceeded from the old auberge, the principal door of 
which slowly opened, and on its threshold appeared Madleiae, the. 
(Bohemian girl, bearing a light which she shaded with her hand, ia 
| a manner to throw the illumination upon her features. 

For some moments she gazed with an air of solicitude carefully 
around : then, as if satisfied with the investigation, she again entered 
’ the dwelling, and almost immediately reappeared at the entrance : 


“And ia this era — this dynasty thu3 to melt away like a cloud of, 1 with her was the king, his arm closely enclasping her waist 


summer 1 Is this king, who rose like Lucifer, son of the morning, 
apoa the world, to glide away like the meteor of a stagnant marsh I 
13 such a being thus to appear, and thus to disappear — even as the 
electric flash of yonder cloud — as bright, as brief I Can all this be sol 
“ And yet, on the morrow mcra, in a few short hours, the scream- 
ing heralds may traverse every street, and lane, and court of Paris, 
phouting to the dismayed and astonished passengers, while they proffer 
300.3 of usoless gold a3 a reward — 


Her dress was deranged, her long black hair was disheveled and 
hung loosely down her form — her face was colorless, and an expres- 
sion of horror sat upon hsr features and glared from her large flash- 
ing eyes. Shudderingly, as she peered out into the gloom, she clung 
to the king, as if for protection ; and by hurried gestures indicated 
ths path which, if pursued, would lead him to the city. 

As the king turned to give her a farewell embrace, the shifting 
I flame of the lamp, held in the hand of hi3 companion, was turned 


24 


Francis 


THE NEW WORLD 


toward her by a sudden gu3h, and threw a strong illumination on her 
face and form. Shocked by the expression thus revealed, the king 
started back, and, removing his hand from her bosom, it was damp 
— with blood! He then perceived that the thin drapery upon her; 
breast was torn and darkly discolored with crimson stains. Here 
and there, too, upon he-r forehead and face, and throat, might be 
seen a spot ol the same ominous hue, and her Lands seemed steeped 
in gore. 

“ Madleine ! Madleine ! ” exclaimed the king. “ How is this 1 
Are you hurt 1 Is this blood ? ” 

Startled by this exclamation, the g'rl strove to conceal the spec- 
tacle presented, by gathering over her breast the fragments of her 
garment. At the same time she laughed — it was a convulsed and 
ghastly laugh. 

“Oh, you see blood, do you 1” she faltered. “It is nothing — 
nothing — a mere accident, a scratch — a little water will remove all. 
Good night — go — go ! ” 

The king seemed but half satisfied with this subterfuge ; but clasp- 
ing her damp bosom to his own, and imprinting a ki33 on an icy lip, 
he hurried away. 

The Bohemian girl gazed after him a\i instant, then with a shud- 
der disappeared. The door closed, the light was extinguished, and 
all was once more dark, and still, and desolate. 

As the kiag walked briskly up the quay, his voice could be heard 
singing — 

“ Souvent femme varie, 

Bicn fd est qui s’y jit.'” 

On all this scene had gazed the old jester, as he stood by the 
ruined parapet, grasping the shrouded corse to plunge it into that 
sepulchre, which gives not up its dead, until the dawn of the resur- 
rection morning. Almost petrified with amazement, he had remained 
rooted to the spot on which he stood, incapable of motion or of 
speech. 

What !” he exclaimed at length, as the singing of the king died 
away in the distance. “ What voice ! visions of the night ! do ye 
mock me ? D wellers in eternity ! do ye return 1 ” 

He pauses — he gazes — he listens intently. 

The king had disappeared in the darkness ; but the sound of his 
retreating footsteps on the stony quay could be faintly caught, and 
once more his voice was heard, diminishing in loudness, as he 
walked rapidly away, singing the concluding couplet of his song — 

“ (Jae femme souvent, 

JV'est qn'une plume au, vent.” 

“Ten thousand curses!” vociferated the enraged old man, now 
clearly comprehending that he had been deceived. “ Oh, misery ! 
After all, it is not he ! The villain yet lives and triumphs in his 
guilt ! I am mocked ! I am deceived ! ” 

Leaving the corpse upon the parapet, he rushed furiously up to 
the tavern, and ia the tones of a maniac screamed forth a mingled 
vociferation of entreaties and maledictions. 

But all was dark and silent, and deserted. 

With his whole force he threw his body against the door. But 
the tough oak, though old and decayed, baffled his frantic violence. 
Like a wild beast seeking some escape front its cage, the infuriated 
eld man prowled around that ruined structure, seeking an entrance. 

But, in vain. Every door — every window — every aperture, was} 
effectually secured and mocked his impotent efforts to effect his pur- 
pose. The casement over the porch alone wa3 open. Before this 
the jester repeatedly stopped and wistfully gazed up, as if measuring 
the altitude with his eye. But at length he seemed satisfied that it was 
impossible for him to succeed in his attempt ; and, leaving the old 
auberge as still, and as dark, and deserted as he found it, he hurried 
back to the parapet. 

“I can, at least, discover what is contained in the sack,” he mut- 
tered, as he dragged it with fury up the quay. 

Kneeling down beside the motionless mass, he now passed his 
bands carefully over the surface. 

“Yes; it is certainly a human body. Some innocent man h-as 
been murdered, and the guilty one has escaped. Ah, traitor ! 
traitor !” 

Producing a dagger from his girdle, the jester hastily ran the 
keen blade through the sack, from one extremity to the other, and | 
its contents were laid bare. It was too dark, however, for the coun- j 
tenance of the victim to be distinguished. Bending on one knee and 
raising and resting the head of the corpse on the other, the old man 
gazed intently on the upturned face with fixed and earnest eye. 

For some time all remained dark and indistinguishable. Still he 
gazed down on that livid countenance. A flash of lightning, at 
length, flickered faintly for an instant, with blue and lurid glare, 
along the horizon; and, in the sullen muttering of the distant peal 
which succeeded, was mingled a groan as deep and awful — a groan 
such as may be heaved from the bosoms of the damned in another 
world, but seldom from the breast of man in this — a groan of more 
than human anguish. 

Another flash, and a shriek so shrill and frantic rose on the heavy 

tmosphere, and echoed along that deserted quay, that one would 
ahave thought it the wail of a lost spirit. 

“My daughter! merciful God! My daughter !” exclaimed the 
wretched old man, clasping the cold form of his child ip his arms, 
as if bereft of reason. “ My Blanche ! ear.h and heaven ! it is — it 
it j « y own, only child !” 


And again the pale lightning played over that beautiful face, and 
the thunder sullenly muttered. 

“ Blood ! is it blood 1” murmured the jester, placing his drenched 
hand to his lips. “Yes, it is blood!” he continued, as the peculiar 
taste of the vital fluid struck his sense. “ Oil, God ! and whose 
blood I I faint — I sicken — I reel — I sink — I am lost! horrible 
vision ! But no — no — no — this cannot be ! it is impossible ! It is too 
dreadful to be true! it is all a horrid dream! My pretty little inno- 
cent Blanche. I told her to go — she never disobeys her old father — 

I told her to go to Evreux, and she is now, no doubt, in safety on her 
route. God keep her !” ejaculated he, dropping on his knees beside 
the body, and raising his clasped hands and his eyes to heaven. 

God keep and bless my child ! Protect her beneath thy wing ! 
May no harm come nigh to her ! And, oh, may this horrible vision 
pass away — may this be only a hideous illusion !” 

Again, and more vividly than before, the lightning illuminated the 
countenance of the corpse. No — there could be no mistaking that 
pale, but still lovely fase, for another’s. 

The eyes were closed ; the long silky lash rested on the marble 
cheek ; the lip3 were yet red, and, slightly parting, disclosed the 
pure and pearly teeth between. In the fair round shoulder, descend- 
ing to the left breast, was a deep gash, from which the crimson cur- 
rent yet welled with every movement of the body ; and the garments 
and the sack were dripping with gore. 

From the position and the shape of the wound, the instrument by 
which it had been inflicted seemed to have been turned aside from 
its aim, at the instant of its descent, by the intervention of some hard 
substance upon the breast, which had thus protected the poor girl 
from instantaneous death, as was designed by the practiced arm that 
dealt the stab. 

It had been even thus. As the hand of the miserable old father 
pas:cd over the bosom of his child to determine the extent and cha- 
racter of he* - wound, it encountered the obstacle buried in the gar- 
ments where it had been concealed. Withdrawing it from its bloody 
resting-place, he held it up before his eyes aud gazed intently. 

The lurid lightning for an instant played over it. And, then, a 
calm, sweet, beautiful face smiled out through the gore by which it 
was disfigured ; and as quiet and peaceful was that angelic smile, as 
if those bright lips had never known sorrow — as if the soft features 
of the long-buried mother were not drenched in the life-blood of her 
innocent child ! 

It was but a single glimpse of this ghastly spectacle that passed 
before the old man’s vision; but it was enough. 

“ Horrer ! horror ! My child — it is my child ! The daughter and 
the mother !” groaned the wretched man, as the terrible certainty at 
last came home to him. And clasping her bleeding form to his 
bosom, he tottered up to the door of the old mansion. 

Laying his precious burthen gently upon t'.ie ground, he kneeled 
beside it, and shouted and shrieked to the guilty inmates of :he 
house far help. But no help came to him. 

“ Help ! help ! help !” was the maniac scream that awoke the 
echoes. 

And then he strove to s'tanch the gaping gash, and again shrieked 
lor light and aid. “ My daughter, ray child, my Blanche — answer 
me! Oh ! heaven, answer me ! 

It was strange! Those cold lips moved! Those closed eyes 
slowly opened ! As if in reply to the earnest and agonized prayer 
of that wretched father, his apparently lifeless child did answer 
him ! 

“Who calls I Who calls Blanche 1” she murmured ia faint and 
smothered accents. 

“ She speaks — she revives — she awakes — her heartbeats— her pulse 
moves — she breathes — her eyes open — her lips move — she lives — she 
lives! No, no, no, I knew she could not be dead ! That would 
have been too awful for earth !” 

The old man now applied himself earnestly ttf resuscitate his 
reviving child. He tore the linen from his breast to stanch her 
hideous wound; but, in spite of all his efforts, the blood still gushed 
forth at every motion of the body. He .chafed her languid pulses ; he 
strove to excite by friction the natural warmth in her limbs, he 
smoothed back the long locks of her brown hair, now stiff with gore, 
from her forehead. He stripped off the damp and bloody garments 
from her breast, and laid his hand and his ear to her heart to be 
sure it was not yet stilled ; he even placed his lips to the chill lips 
of his child, as if to breathe into her exhausted frame a portion of his 
own vitality. 

It was a fearful sight, that old man thus striving, in all the agony 
of his soul, to call back to existence his only child ! Andover and 
anon he sent forth the hoarse shout — 

“Kelp !— help ! — help !” 

Again the lips of the poor girl moved. 

“ Where am II” she faintly asked. “ Who is with me 1 Fran- 
cis ! Oh, I suffer !” 

“ My child— my Blanche !” cried the jester, clasping the gory form 
to his bosom. “ Know you not my voice 1 Can you not compre- 
hend 1 Speak, love !” 

“My father — ” 

“Blanche — what has been done to thee 1 Who has done this 1 
What terrible mystery is here 1 Why are you not far hence I Oh, 

I fear to touch thee, to move thee, lest I should cause thee pain. It 
is all dark and desolate, and my shouts bring no aid. I can see no- 
thing. I can only feel a gash and the wet blood. You are wounded,- 


Of Valois 


THE NEW WORLD 


25 


my child; where are you wounded 1 Direct my hand to the spot, 
Blanche !” 

The fainting girl took the hand of her father and pressed it to her 
breast, but not upon the wound. 

“ My heart — I am sure — the iron touched — I felt-—” 

“ Who struck this blow, my Blanche 1” cried the jester. “He 
shall perish !” 

“ No — no — it is all my own fault !” murmured the suffering girl. 
“I deceived you; I disobeyed you, my father; I loved him too 
much ; I came back to save him ; he is saved ; I suffer in the place 
of him !” 

“Oh, Fate ! inexplicable ! inexorable! inscrutable! Sr.ared in 
the net of my own weaving ! Foiled by the scheme of my own 
contriving ! It is the hand of God that crushes me ! Short-sighted 
and miserable man that I was, to think that vengeance belonged to 
myself ! Dreadfully has this blow recoiled on mine own head ! Tell; 
me, my child, how came all this about 1 I cannot yet comprehend 1 
All is mystery. What was done to thee, Blanche'? and howl and| 
why 1 and by whom ? Explai.-i to me all, my child. Speak !” 

“ Do not ask me to speak, my father!” replied the poor victim, 
faintly. 

“ My precious one, forgive me !” exclaimed the old man, covering 
her face with kisses. “ But to see thee thus — io see thee suffer, and j 
know not why — to lose thee, and know not how ! Thy lips are cold, j : 
my love ; thy forehead is damp !” 

“ Oh, the other side !” faltered the sufferer, striving to turn herself. 

“ Quick, my 1 ath ; r — I stifle ! I — ” 

“ Blanche — Blanche ! S#ay — do not die ! There — there !” cried 
the old fe.ther, in an agony of apprehension, seating himself on the 
-'lamp stones of the quay, and clasping his girl, a3 if she were an in- 
fant, to his breast. “Help — help !” he shouted. “Help! Watch! 
Murder! Help ! In the name of God, will you leave an old man’s 
only child to die in this way, in the dark, at night, assassinated, on 
the banks of the Seine! Help! watch! help! this way — this 
way ! Ah ! I remember now — the old Ferry bell stands there — just 
there. Blanche — my child — shall I not leave you one instant, to 
ring the bell for help ? a single instant ?” 

“ Da not leave me, my father ! da not leave me alone !” faltered 
Blanche. 

“ No — no, my blessed child, your father will never leave you ; 
and yet, it must be so a single instant. Help ! holloa ! watch ! help ! 
This way !” , 

But it was a lonely spot. All was still and desolate. The old 
house gave no sign of life in the darkness ; but there it stood — 
siient — deserted — shadowy, like a sepulchre. 

“The other side, my father — my father!” groaned poor Blanche, 
writhing with pain. “ Oh, I sutler !” 

“ My child, do not die ; do not forsake your old father !” exclaimed 
the jester, all the parent’s agony of apprehension again bursting forth. 
“Stay with me, Blanche, I will not stir, in mercy do not die ! You 
are in pain, my daughter, my arm is not well placed, it hurts your 
wound — you do not lie well. I will change it all. There — there, is 
it better now, dear 1 Oh, in pity, try and breathe until some one 
come3 to us! It will be soon — it must be soon !” 

And again he shouted in despair and anguish for assistance. 

“Forgive him, my father!” whispered Blanche. “Forgive me. 
God bless you ! God bless ” 

She had fainted with the loss of blood. Her head fell back on 
the old man’s shoulder, and the idea that she was dead arose on 
his mind. 

Leaning the lifeless form tenderly on the ground, he rushed to the 
bell, and, for an instant, rang it with such furious vic.’ence that every 
echo along the river bank was awakened far and near. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Alack the day 1 she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.— S hakspere. 

Oh! she is jjone for ever! 

1 know when one is dead, and when one live." ; 

Sne’s dead as eartk.— K ing Lear. Act V. 

Search, seek and know qow this foul murder comes. — S hakspere. 

What should it be that they so shriek abroad ?— Ib. 

So may she rest, her faults lie gently on Her.— Ic. 

Hastening back to his wounded child, the old man seated him 
self on the pavement, and embraced her cold form to his misshapen 
but stalwart breast, au if its weight had been that of an infant 
Taking off a portion of his own garments, he wound them around her 
naked shoulders and breast, to protect her from the damp atmosphere 
of the dawn, which was sweeping up chill and misty from the sur- 
face of the Seine. Now, he would smooth back from her ffrir fore- 
head the stiff masses of auburn hair, once so bright and soft ; then 
he would press his lips to her’s and strive ia vain to distinguish 
whether the breath of life yet lingered three ; and again Le would 
clasp her bleeding farm to his bosom, and pour out the passionate 
ejaculations of lament, and love, and supplication. 

“Speak to me, my daughter — one word — one little word — tell me 
you yet live! ia pity speak to your old father once more! This 
matchless form, why is it now so cold and stiffened ! But she is no: 
dead! Sixteen years ! that i3 t-»o young to die. You cannot be, 
dead , say Blanche ! You would never have forsaken your old father 
thus! She does not answer me — she does not hear me! why?; 
•oh ! why ?” 

The last desperate efforts of the jester to procure assistaace fori 


his child seemed to have been successful. Lights w ere seen ap- 
proaching on the land, and from the city, across the Seine. The 
confused murmur of voices mingled with shouts, and, now aud then 
the rattling of wheels along the quay, could be heard in the distan c 
gradually drawing nigh. 

The dawn of day was beginning grayly to break along the east- 
ern horizon, and a chill breeze came over the Seine. 

The tempest of the night had long since passed away ; the thun- 
der had died in the distance, and the rain had ceased to fall. And 
there, in the mists of the morning, the old Auberge stood as lone, 
and a3 silent, and as desolate, amid the approaching tumult, as du- 
ring the daikness, and stillness, and horrible scenes of the night. 
There it stood— not a light could be seen — not a sound could be 
heard — not a voice spake — not a window or a door moved — not a 
living thing could be distinguished. There it stood, in the gray light 
of the dawn, like a terrible embodiment of mystery and crime j 
like a frightful phantom of assassination and blood !” 

“ Which way 1” 

“ Where is it?” 

“ What’s the matter V 3 

“ Wno rang the bell ?” 

“ How dark it is !” 

“ What a dreadful night !” 

“ Somebody murdered V* 

“ How cold !” 

Such were the confused exclamations of the crowd, which now 
drew nigh, and gathered around that bloody spectacle of the old 
jester and his senseless child. 

At first, the old man seemed hardly aware of their presence, but 
continued to pour out his passionate exclamations to the cold bur- 
then on his bosom, and to cover it with his caresses. 

“ Why did Heaven give me a creature so matchless? Why was 
she not taken away from me before she had become a portion of my 
very soul ? Why was she spared to me to be at last the cause of 
such awful wretchedness 1 Why was she so beautiful and so good ? 
Why was I suffered so wildly to love her, vnly the more terribly to 
mourn her loss 1 But, oh, thou canst not be dead ! thou art a child, 
my Blanche — thou art a little innocent girl, that plays almost with 
the other children ! It cannot be that thou art dead — ind by such a 
cause ! Who would harm a little child 1 Why stab to death an in- 
nocent girl 1 Impossible ! ’’ 

“His words cut me to the very heart!” said a woman ia the 
crowd to another woman, wiping her eyes. 

“ The old man’s child has been murdered,” was the reply. 

“ Something must be done !” cried a third person in the crowd. 
“Why do we stand here? Why are we idle! Have we no 
hearts 1” 

But no one moved. The throng seemed too much petrified with 
horror and amazement to take the necessary steps for the relief of 
the wretchedness before them. 

A man from the multitude, at length, stepped forward and laid 
his hand on the jester’s shoulder. 

The bereaved raised his glazed eyes from the still features of his 
child, and looked around, with an air of surprise, on the assembled, 
thrrug. 

“Ah, you are here !” he said, after a pause, as if to recover his 
consciousness. “ You have come at last ! Well— it i 3 high time 
you had come ! It is a grand spectacle you have gathered to wit- 
ness — an infirm old man and his murdered child. Through all the 
darkness and the tempest of this dreadful night has he shrieked to 
you for help, when that help would have been to him more than life, 
and no one came ! But you are here now — you are here at last, to 
behold a scene. Well, feast your hearts on an old man’s misery I 
Oh, you are too late — too late !” 

Then, after a pause, perceiving a carriage-driver near him with a 
whip in his hand, he exclaimed, 

“ Are your horses here, man 1 your carriage 1 Speak ! Are 
you deaf ? Your carriage — your horses — are they here 1” 

“ Yes!” replied the man. “How wild his eyes are !” added the 
man in a lower tone, retreating a step or two into the crowd. 

“ Fes?” rejoined the jester. ■* Well, take my head aid crush it 
beneath your horse’s hoofs !” 

And again he clasped his chill burthen in his arms, and relapsed 
j in'« h's former 'nseasibiiity. 

Several of the more intelligent citizens were, by this lime, in the 
asssmblmg throng, and, among them, a surgeon. 

An attempt was immediately made to separate the father and his 
child, in order, if life was not yet utterly extinct in the poor girl, 
measures might be taken for her restoration. 

But all such benevolent attempts were met by the old man with 
unyielding resistance. 

“ I will not— I say I will not /” he cried, grasping Ins child con- 
vulsively to his bosom. “ You cannot have my daughter! she i 3 
my all on earth — I have nothing else. What ! take from an old man 
his only child? Are ye men to do this thing? Nay — nay, my 
friends, why do you grasp me so roughly? I have done you no 
harm — I pray you, do not injure me. I am a very feeble and infirm 
old man, who has nothing to love, or to love him, but his daughter; 
and sure, you cannot have hearts to take her from me ! 1 do not 
know any of your faces — you all look very strange to me ; and I 
suppose I look very strange to you, sitting here all alone in the dark, 
t ca the cold stones of the quay, with my daughter ia my arms. But 


THE NEW WORLD. 


Francis. 


2$ 


I was doing no harm — no harm to any one I assure you. I am only 
a poor old man who has lost his daughter. Do you comprehend me 
atoto ? Why do you come to me, so many of you 1 What do wish 
with me 1 Ah, that wsman weeps ! she knows what it is to be a 
parent. Bless her— how kind she is ! She will not permit them to 
carry away my child. Oh, tell them, good woman, to let me stay 
iere, and let my daughter stay with me ; and God will be good to 
you and yours forever !” 

“ Nay, sir !” replied the woman ; “ pray be calm — compose your- 
self. They mean no harm. They only wish to be of service to you 
let them take your child from your arms. You can do her no good. 
We fear she is dead: she ” 

“No — no — no !” eagerly interrupted the jester. “ Leave me ! go 
away, all of you. She is not dead — she is not dead I tell you ! Do 
I not feel her heart throb a little 1 And she breathes a little — yes, a 
little. She needs me near her, she loves me more than all of you. 
■She was always an affectionate, dutiful girl. Dead, did you say, my 
good woman 1 Why, look at this face: did you ever see a dead face 
so beautiful 1 And her lips — ho.v red they are ! and her eyes — and 
her forehead and bosom — hew fair they are ! give me your apron, 
my good woman, to cover her shoulders, and then go tell a surgeon 
to come to me from the city, aad tell him to corns quickly, and 
that I have plenty of gold for him ” 

“A surgeon i9 here,” replied one of the crowd. 

Another attempt as unsuccessful a3the former, was made to release 
the wounded girl from her father's arms. 

“ What means this violence 1” cried the jester, sternly knitting his 
shaggy brows, “ will you tear a dying daughter from the arms of her 
parent ? Monster*, begone ! But no — no — I will not be angry. You 
do not mean to harm me, good people, ®r my child. You are only 
a little mistaken, that’s all. You do only think that a father’s arms 
is no place for a suffering daughter. You only think she loves you 
more than she loves him. Ha! ha! That is a mistake, indeed ; 
and you think, too, I suppose, that you love.her more than her old 
father di»es ! Well, one mistake is about as near the truth as the 
other is ; and that idea of yours that she is dead, is the wiHest mis- 
take of all ! Why ! such a thing, I tell you, is not only improbable, 
but it is impossible! Such events are hot permitted on the earth. 
God Almighty could not be so cruel to a poor old wretch, like ms, 
as to tear away his only child in this manner ! He knows, what 
none of the rest of you know, that this little girl in my arms is the only 
thing dear to me in the whole world; and are you so wicked as to 
suppose he would suffer such an innocent creature to be stabbed to 
death, at midnight, in the mid3t of a thunder storm, in such a deso- 
late spot a3 this is 1 Besides, she loves me, as much as I love her. 
Look at me good people. Bring nearer your flambeaux, and hold 
them up to my face. Did you ever see anything half so hideous 1 
Examine my form; did you ever dream that the human figure could 
be so monstrously fashioned! See! what a prodigious hump before, 
and another behind worse than that in front ! And all the world 
scorns and hates the hideous and deformed ; every one flies from 
him — no one cares for him. Yet she loves me — she, so pure and 
peerless ; she, a creature so much more lovely than all others, as I 
am more hideous; she, my joy, my treasure, my sole consola- 
tion upon the earth, loves me ! When others have mocked and 
derided her poor, deformed old father, she has wept with and com- 
forted him ; when all the world was arrayed against and hated him, 
her heart has yearned to him and blest him. So good — and dead ! 
So young, and bright, and beautiful, and dead! No — no! Is she 
not fair, good woman 1 is she not very fair ! Her cheek is pale now, 
poor innocent, from faintness and loss of blood. But she will soon 
revive. Her forehead is damp. A kerchief, pray, to wipe away the 
cold dew.” 

The woman complied with his request, and, having wiped the damp 
from the pale brow of his child, he again clasped her to his breast. 

“ Was it not strange,” he continued, after a brief pause, “ was not 
it very singular, that the mother’s picture should thus have protected 
ihe life of the child 1 It was my request, that, she should place that 
picture next her heart. Why was it sol Was it presentiment of 
coming evil 1 She obeyed my bidding ; and lo ! that sweet sem- 
blance from her angel mother, like a guardian spirit, turned aside 
Jhe keen blade of the assassin from the heart of the child!” 

The old man withdrew the portrait from his bosom, and, wiping 
away the dark stains of blood from its surface, he gazed attentively 
on that beautiful face, and on the still, quiet features that reposed on 
his breast. 

The crowd around looked on the scene with wonder, aad offered 
mo interference. 

“ No — I never knew until now,” continued the old man, “ the 
wonderful similarity of these two faces ! Tne same open forehead, 
the same clear eyebrow, the same curving lip is here as there ; and 
the same gentle smile sleeps on the features of the mother and the 
child. Do you sec how the red yet lingers on her lip 1 Oh, I remem- 
ber — could you only have seen her! I see her now as she looked 
when a little girl of four years, with her soft hair, and her large 
bright eyes, and her calm, intelligent gaze ; she was always a quiet 
child, strolling about on the flowery banks of the Vienne, in the little 
village of Chinon. Oh, she was such a beautiful child! People 
came all the way from Sanmur, a dozen mile3, only to see her. No 
one ever dreamed that the old hunchback, who took such pride and 
delight in the admiration bestowed on this lovely girl, was her father 
She never dreamed it herself, innocent thing, though strangely 


enough! she loved me all the same. No one knew it but the old 
spae-wife, who closed her sweet mother’s eyes when Blanche was 
born. 

The old man paused for a moment and wept. 

“ Oh, it was a strange contrast, no doubt,” he continued ; “ that 
old deformed man playing about in the fields with that little girl 
among the flowers — herself the sweetest flower of all the treasures 
of summer. And now — now,” he slowly added, “my Blanche, my 
poor ruined child, my innocent sufferer, lost though thou art ; yet, 
thou art beautiful still! The cold world may scorn thee and cast 
thee out, but thy old father will never forsake— will never cease (to 
love thee and protect thee. When she was an infant I held her thus. 
She slumbered in my arms then as gently as she is slumbering now. 
And whea she awoke, the sweet cherub, she would open her bright, 
large eyes and gaze up in my face so knowingly, and smile with her 
soft lips so sweetly: and then I would kiss her little delicate feet and 
rosy fingers, and hug her to my heart. Ah, poor innocent Iamb, how- 
little did I then think it was possible she should ever suffer as she 
now does !” 

To convey an idea of the manner in which all this was said — and 
in that manner was nearly all its force — would be impossible. The 
sighs, the sobs, the moans, the piteous and cutting smiles, as the- 
poor old sufferer, from time to time, looked up in the face of those 
around him ; his beseeching gaze, the indescribable pathos of his tones, 
tbe tears which gushed in torrents along the channels grooved in his 
rugged and grief-worn face, the touching tenderness with which he 
fixed his eyes on the dear burthen clasped so fondly to his breast, 
the keen and jealous glance of watchfulness which he cast around 
him every moment, as if he feared his child would he stolen from 
his embrace — all of these circumstances accompanying his wild and 
rambling ejaculations, lent to them an eloquence which no mere>. 
words in any tongue could possibly convey. 

“You see, good people,” continued he, after a pause of longer - 
duration than usual, “ you see I am very quiet and very reasonable. 

I am tranquil and peaceable, and have no wish to offend any one. 
You see I am an infirm and feeble old man, who could do no harm 
if he tried. Once, I believe, I was spiteful and malicious, and re- 
vengeful. But, oh, I feel not so now Indeed, good people, I (am 
not sure that my mind is exactly what it used to be, I have become 
so gentle. People used to be afraid of me — great people, too, while 
/ feared no one : it seems a3 if I feared all of you, and none of you 
feared me. But, no matter, no matter. I am sure you will let me 
hold my poor girl in my arms, and that i3 all I ask. She will wake 
soon : you will see hex large eyes open like bright stars when a 
cloud has passed over them. Not one furrow on this pale forehead, 
not a single wrinkle, no graves of old griefs here! No, she is too 
young for that. How smooth and marble-like ! How still and cold 
also! But net dead oh, no ! Dead, and so beautiful ! See, I have 
already revived one of her little hands in mine. Look ! see ! 
touch them, sir ! How soft and white ; nay, sir, stoop down, I will 
permit you to take hold of her hand,” he continued, to one of the 
crowd who stood nearest, and who was a surgeon. “You look too 
kind and sorrowful, I am sure, to harm either my child or me.” 

The man of science seized this opportunity not only to feel the 
pulse of the peor sufferer, but to examine her wound. Meanwhile 
the old father continued his incoherent and rambling ejaculations. 

“She revives, sir! she certainly revives ! Can you not feel her 
pulse throb 1 And yst,” he added, in a whisper, with a piteous smile,. 
“ and yet they thought her dead But she is not dead, sir 1 She is 
not dead 1” he anxiously repeated, gazing up keenly into the sur- 
geon’s eyes. 

The man slowly arose to his feet; and, then, in a calm, distinct 
voice, he replied — 

“Old man, I fear your child is dead.” 

There was a sigh, a groan ; and the jester’s misshapen head sank, 
heavily back on the stones of the quay. 

CHAPTER XVII THE RETUIBUTieif. 

High minds, of native pride and force. 

Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse ! 

Pear, for their scourge, mean villains have — 

Thou art the torturer of the brave ! 

Yet, fatal strength they boast, to steel 
Their minds to bear the wounds they feel, 

Been while they writhe beneath the smart 
Of civil conflict in the heart.— Marmion, Cant. hi. 

Two months and part of a third had passed away, since the 
melancholy events of our last few chapters. 

The surprise occasioned by the sudden and mysterious duappear- 
anee of the jester aad his daughter had almost ceased at the French 
court ; and a circumstance which at first had monopolized the 
thoughts and engrossed the conversation of all, was now but rarely- 
alluded to by any. 

It would be injustice to Francis to say that he, too, as soon forgot 
one who for him had sacrificed her all on eatth, and for whose life 
she had willingly offered her own. No — selfish as the vices of 
Francis of Valois had rendered him, there yet flawed in the depth 
of his bosom, beneath all superincumbent impurities, a current cf 
warm and generous emotion : and, if no angel had ever before come 
down to move those waters, to make them pure and impart to them 
a kealth-giving efficacy — their surface, at least, had been agitated, 
by the gentle virtues and innocent simplicity of the character of the 
unfortunate Blanche. 

It w’3, therefore, with deep and sincere solicitude, that he first 


Of VALars. 


THE NEW WORLD. 


27 


learned the mysterious disappearance of the jester and his daughter 
.from the court ; although he then supposed that absence could be 
caused only by the peculiar situation of the unfortunate girl, and 
that, in a few weeks, or, at the longest, a few months, she would 
return from her seclusion, bearing in her arms a pledge of their love. 

Bst, when, week after week, and month after month had passed 
aw ay — when every mean3 which the anxiety of affection could 
devise to find out the retreat of the unhappy Blanche had utterly 
failed of suecss3, — when not a syllable of her fate or her situation 
could, by the m® it incessant and searching scrutiny, be gained — 
the king yielded to his darkest apprehensions, and, in bitterness of 
soul, bewailed the loss of one whom alone he had ever truly loved, 
and whose place now vacated in his heart, he felt could never be 
filled by another. 

He retired from the giyeties of the court — he shut him3?lf up in 
the most retired apartments of. the Louvre ; and, for months, reso- 
lutely refused -.1 1 counsel or consolation. 

What would have been the ultimate effect of this bereavement, if 
left to work out its own legitimate results on a nature so susceptible 
as wa3 that of Francis, is not easy to determine. Whether some 
new attachment would shortly have effaced all memory of the old, 
as i3 often witnessed unler similar circumstances; or, whether 
an affliction so sudden and so severe would have had the effect, as in 
the instance of the celebrated Armand Ranee, restorer of the Order 
of La Trappe — to metamorphose the libertine into a recluse— is 
impossible to decide. 

It was at this crisis, however, that another, and, perhaps, the 
ruling passion in the breast of the young monarch of France, was, 
by an . uiespected event, for the first time in hi3 life thoroughly 
roused. That passion was Ambition ; and it never slumbered again, 
until its victim slept the last sleep in the sepulchre of St. Denis. 

It hi3 been well said, that man often flies from love to ambition — 
seldom from ambition to love : and it cannot be doubted, that emo- 
tions in many respects so similar in feature and effect —equally wild 
and intoxicating — equally exciting and absorbing — though not 
equally tran-:ie«* and evanescent — should be better adapted to neu- 
tralize each other, or — experienced in succession — to extinguish 
one the other, than any of the sister pa33ions which make up the 
nature of man. No, it is not strange that the heart of man when 
scathed by bereaved, or disappointed, or unrequited love, so often 
yields up all its energies to the delirious excitements of ambition; 
though happier far were he, if, as is often witnessed in the gentler 
nature of woman, the blight of an earthly affection should lead him 
to give his affections to his God. 

It would not, therefore, have been a circumstance singular or un- 
precedented, had Francis sought relief from the pangs of a wound 
he i’slt could never be healed, by plunging voluntarily and 
eagerly, as a last and a sole resort, into the fiery waves of ambition. 
Yet, were this tha3, sid, indeed, was a resolution, with which com- 
menced the reverses and afflictions of all his future reign, and of all 
hi3 future life. And truly may it be said, that if the wild love of 
Francis of Va'ois blighted wherever it fell, amply was that love 
avenged by the wilder ambition of the destroyer. If the love of 
Francis caused ruin and wretchedness to others, the ambition of 
Francis, to which that love gave birth, caused more than equal ruin 
and wretchedness to himself. Indeed, from the day, or rather 
the night, of the mysterious disappearance of the last victim of his 
unbridled and unprincipled lust, may we date not only the com- 
mencement of his reverses, but the rise of that wild and ruinous 
ambition, which, for twenty years, plunged all Europe in blood, and 
stripped the diadem of France of some of its richest gems.. 

It wa3 in the early part of 1519, that an event took place, which, 
though in itself too inconsiderable t® attract much attention — by 
reason of it3 consequences has been pronounced more memorable, 
than any occurrence for several ages — an event, which, by rousing 
a spirit of rivalry between the two most powerful princes of Europe, 
broke the profound peace then prevailing throughout Christendom, 
kindling a conflict more general and more lasting, than any which 
those nations had hitherto experienced 

This event was the death of Maximilian, the Emperor of Germa- 
ny: — a prince, whose fame may be deemed to owe more to his death 
than his life, since to the former alone and its results is his name at 
ali noticeable in the chronicles of the age. 

To the imperial dignity thus vacated aspired Charles of Spain and 
Francis of France — each sanguine in his anticipations of success, 
and each as resolute, and as unscrupulous as the other, in the instru- 
ments employed for i’s attainment. Promises, bribes, entreaties, 
threats, everything which could induce or dissuade was eagerly put 
in requisition by the rival candidates to carry the desired end ; and 
all Europe gazed with breathless interest on a contest, illustrious as 
much by reason of the competitors a3 for the prize. The princes 
themselves professed, each for the oth*r,the most exalted sentiments 
of respect and admiration, and declared that personal animosity 
should have no place in their competition. “ We court the same 
mistress,” exclaimed the gallant and warm-hearted Francis. “ Let 
each urge his suit with a'l the address of which he is master. The 
most fortunate will prevail. Let the other rest content.”* 

Bat this was far easier for the young monarch to say, when his 
own hopes oi success were high and his expectations sanguine, than 
it was for him to feel, when, in the eyes of ail Christendom, his 

* <i > uicciardiai I. XIII, 159, 


rival, by the unanimous vote of the electoral college, was elevated 
to the imperial chair. 

The disappointment of Francis at this event was terrible — almost 
overwhelming. Never did ambitious aspiration receive a check s® 
severe — never wa3 mortification at failure so keen and so cutting. 
His whole soul had been thrown into this competition — his hopes and 
his happiness had seemed to depend on its successful issue ; and ntw 
that all was lost, he felt that nothing but the most signal and brilliant 
exploit could wipe off the remembrance of a failure, which to his 
high-wrought and sensitive honor, was little less than the stain o£ 
disgrace. Ardently did he long again to be on the distant battle- 
field where the yet green laurels of his youth had been won; ar.d 
it is not surprising that a desire so much in his own power to gratify, 
should soon have attained its object. 

To gain to his favor Henry of Eag-land, who, at that era, by the 
force of various circumstances, was the acknowledged “Arbiter of 
Europe,” Francis procured that interview between the Fri nch and 
the English courts with their respective monarch?, on the Plcin of 
Guisnes, so celebrated by the appellation of “ The Field of the 
Cloth of-Gold,” where, for eighteen days, with a magnificence and. 
profusion unequalled in history, all the knightly feats of tilt and 
tournament — all the exercises and pastimes, — all the grace and the 
gallantry cf a ehivalric age, were beheld. Even the monarchs 
themselves united in the pastimes of the festival; and, in a wrest- 
ling match, the majesty of England was twice thrown to the earth 
by ihe superior dexterity in that exercise of the majesty of France ! 

But, if this success can be deemed a triumph, small as it was, it 
was the only advantage gained by Francis through this gorgeous pi- 
geant; and he had the mortification to perceive, that more was 
gained from the selfish and vacillating ?Ienry by his more astute and 
politic rival, in a private interview shortly subsequent at Gravelines, 
ihan by all the pomp and profusion of Guisnes; and that the impe- 
rial chair had cost less to Charles in bribery, than had been vainly 
lavished by himself in an idle show. Indeed, his splendid display 
of magnificent gallantry seems not only to have failed to attain the 
end for which it was designed, but almost to have conduced to a re- 
sult precisely the reverse— a result most fatal to the aspirations of its 
projector: for, from the date of that interview, the crafty prelate 
Wolsey, and, through his influence, the King of England, seem to 
have been unalterably attached to the interests of Charles. 

Perceiving, at length, that he could hope to gain no advantage 
over his rival By the arts of peace, Francis resolved at once to have 
recourse to those of war; and, having concluded an alliance with, 
the Pope, he proceeded at once to invade Navarre, in the name of 
Henry d’ Albret, son of the former sovereign. The French troop3 
under the gallant but rash L’Esparre were victorious. Nararrewas 
speedily reduced, and then as speedily was it lost by the imprudence 
of the young victor, who wa3 himself captured by the enemy, and 
his forces expelled the kingdom. 

At the head of a large army, Francis in person next invaded the 
Netherlands ; and here — singular enough— not by rashness, but by 
excess of caution, he failed of success! 

Peace was now proffered Francis by the emperor, but, being 
indignantly rejected, a league between Charles and Henry of Eng- 
land was at once concluded against the imprudent monarch. With 
equal imprudence OJet de Foix, a young and impetuous cavalier, 
was appointed to the government of Milan, the insolence and rapaci- 
ty of whose rule soon caused a rupture with Leo ; and the Milanese 
was invaded by the Papal troop3. Marechal de Lautre 1 ’, the gallant 
brother of Odet, was instantly dispatched to the theatre <f v a-. 
Arrived on the spot, the money provided for the payment of h a 
troops was seized and detained by Louise of Savoy, the mother et 
Francis, to gratify a hatred of Lautie’, who had failed to return her 
love for him, and to prevent his success. The final result was the 
defeat of Lautrec, and the expulsion of the French from the Milanese. 
A body of Swiss were then levied by the intrepid Lautrec. These 
mercenaries insisted on immediate engagement with the imperial 
army, ar.d the result was a bloody defeat. At the same time, almost 
without iesislence, Genoa fell into the hands cf the Emperor, and. 
Francis no longer retained in Italy an inch of his late extens.ve pos- 
sessions. In the very midst of all these terrible reverses, an English, 
herald appeared at Paris, and, in the name cf his sovereign, deciared 
war against Erance. 

But the sp'rit of Francis succumbed not. Never does he appear 
invested with so much true dignity and ability as now. His armies 
were defeated, and his coffers were exhausted : but calmly, yet 
vigorously, did he, at once, proceed to recruit the one and to 
supply the other. The result was favorable ; and once more did 
fortune smile on the banners of FraBcis. Surrey, who, with his 
troops had ravaged the coasts of Normandy and invaded Picardy, 
was driven out of F*r.ce by Vendome with defeat and disgrace. 

Thus closed the second campaign cf Fiancis. 

The th rd campaign opened with the defection of Venice, which 
had ever remained firm in her attachment to France, and her alliance 
with the Emperor. To this acceded Pope Adrian ; and “ Francis,” 
in the words of Guicciardini, “ w f as left without a single ally to re- 
sist the assaults of so many foes, whose armies threatened, and 
whose territories encompassed his dominions on every side.” 

But the intrepid spirit of Francis, ever most dauntless when dan- 
ger was most imminent, quailed not before this threatened League 
Long before an army had been marshalled to assault him, he waa 


28 


THE NEW WORLD. 


Frances 


ready for the field, and his troops were on their march for the scene 
of their former triumphs-- the sunny plains of the Milanese. 

The van of his forces was already at Lyons on its route, and 
Francis was about assuming the command, when an extensive con- 
spiracy, involving the very existence of his kingdom, was discovered, 
at whose head was Charles, Duke of Bourbon, Lord High Consta- 
ble 'of the realm. 

This treason of Bourbon was, no doubt, to a great extent, superin- 
duced by the amorous and revengeful passions of Louise of Savoy 
Slighted, disappointed, insulted, the ardent love of this vindictive 
and powerful woman was turned into the most implacable hate ; and, 
for years, she had exerted all her va3t abilities to ruin in fame*and in 
fortune the accomplished prince, who . either could not or would not 
return her passionate regard. It was this persecution, and a neglect 
of his claims to distinction by Francis, which first served to alienate 
Bis feelings from the crown of France. 

Abandoning the design of invading the Milanese in person, Francis 
remained at home to guard against the consequences of Bourbon’s 
treason, the constable having fled across the Rhine to join the em- 
peror. In his stead, he appointed Admiral Bonaivet, “ the most 
accomplished gentleman in the French court,” to the supreme con- 
trol. 

The chief qualification of Bonaivet to this responsible station, 
seems to have been his deadly hate to the traitor Bourbon ; for, on 
his arrival in Italy, when a series of fortunate circumstances had 
plaeed Milan in his power, he utterly failed, from a negligence which 
has been attributed to infatuation, to improve them ; and was com- 
pelled to retire from the seige. 

It was at this time that the English-under Suffolk, together with a 
body of Flemings, again invaded France, and advanced to within 
thirty miles of Paris. On the banks of the Oyse, this powerful force 
was met by La Tremouille with a fesv thousand men, and driven 
like frightened sheep out of the kingdom. 

In a similar manner were the imperial troops defeated in their inva- j. 
Bioa of the provinces of Burgundy and Vienna. 

These, however, were but single gleams of sunshine lighting up 
the gathering clouds which lowered darkly around the fortunes of 
Francis. The events which succeeded these were the loss of Font- 
arabia by treachery, and the defeat of Bonnivet by the allied arrmy 
in the Milanese under the traitor Bourbon and — the ablest of the im- 
perial generals — the Marquis of Pescara. In this battle Bonnivet 
was dangerously wounded, and the celebrated Chevalier Bayard was 
slain. When no longer able to keep his saddle because of his 
wounds, this intrepid man was seated on the earth with his back 
supported by the bole of a tree, and his face turned to the approach- 
ing foe. . With his eyes then fastened on the cross-guard of his sword, 
he composed hi3 mind for death. In this position he was found 
by Bourbon, who led the van of the pursuit, and by Pescara who 
seoa came up, both of whom expressed deep sympathy for his fate, 
and the latter of whom ordered a tent to be pitched and surgical aid 
to be furnished him. “ He died,” however, say3 the elegant historian 
of that era, *' as his ancestors for several generations had done, on the 
held of battle. Pescara ordered his body embalmed and sent to his 
relations; and such was the respect jaid to military merit in that 
age, that the Duke of Savoy commanded it to be received with 
Toyal honors in the cities of his dominions : in Dauphine, Bayard’s 
native country, the people ef all ranks came out in solemn procession 
lo meet it.” 

Thus ended the third campaign of Francis of Valois beyond the 
Alp3 ; and it left him not an ally in Italy, nor a foot ef ground. 

The fourth campaign opened with an attempt of the emperor to 
Invade Provence. The- scheme was a magnificent one, though too 
chimerical for success. The victorious army of Italy, under Bourbon 
and Pescara, carried the Alps, and, entering Provence, laid siege to | 
Marseilles. For full forty days was every machine with which the | 
military engineers of that era were familiar, put in action for the re- 
duction of this important position. But all proved unsuccessful, and, 
on the approach of Francis with a powerful army from Avignon, the 
besieged force retraced their steps over the Alps into Italy, as hastily 
•as they had descended into the plains of Provence. 

To pursue this shattered and retreating army — to lead the most 
brilliant body of troops he had ever commanded into the Milanese, 
and recover his ancient and hereditary possessions — was a vision too 
fascinating to a spirit like that which animated the impetuous French 
monarch, to be resisted. Regardless of the remonstrances of his 
subjects, the dissuasions of his wisest counsellors, and the entreaties 
of his sagacious mother, he committed to the latter the regency of 
his kingdom, and commenced his rapid march for the theatre of 
action. 

Milan was taken by surprise; the imperial troops were driven 
from its wails, and the city was captured almost without a blow. 

The reduction of the citycf Pavia was i#xt resolved on ; and, for 
a period of three months, all the arts of ihe French engineers were 
employed Rgainst its defences in vain. To capture Pd via, or to 
perish beneath its walls, had been the frequent and chivalric vow of 
Francis during this protracted siege ; and, although the imperial 
army in great power was r.ow advancing to give him battle, he was 
resolute in his determination not to leave his intrenchments for a 
mere favorable position. He was even so imprudent as to weaken 
his force by detaching a body of troops six thousand strong, under 
the command of John Stuart, Duke of Alban;’, for the invasion of 
Naples, la this condition he rashly led on his army against the 


imperial troops, and the result, as might have been apprehended, 
was a defeat more disastrous than France'had ever before experi- 
enced. Ten thousand of her bravest subjects, and the flower of her 
nobility, were left dead on the bloody field. Bonnivet, whose coun- 
sels more than those ol any one else had conduced to this terrible 
calamity, would not survive the defeat; axd, rushing into the thickest 
of the fight, fell, covered with wounds, the last being received in 
protecting the life of his beloved sovereign. Francis had two horses 
killed under him, and, although severely wounded, long continued to 
perform prodigies of valor on foot. His life at length became in 
imminent danger, from the fury ef a body of Spanish soldiers igno- 
rant of his person and rank. But, though exposed to almost certain 
destruction by his obstinacy, he refused to yield his sword to the 
traitor Bourbon, though entreated so to do. De Lannoy, the Vice- 
roy of Naples, was accordingly called up, to whom Francis surren- 
dered his sword. The Viceroy instantly unloosed his own weapon 
from his side, and placed it in the hands of the king. 

Another illustrious prisoner by this defeat was Henry D’Albret, 
the young monarch of Navarre. 

The first intelligence of this disastrous battle was conveyed by a 
letter from the king himself to his mother, in which he made the 
memorable exclamation, “ All is lost except our honor ! ” Conster- 
nation immediately filled all France ; but the measures adopted by 
Louise of Savoy for the safety of the realm, were as honorable to her 
abilities as regent as had been her former exhibitions of passion dis- 
graceful to her character as a womax. 

Ths royal captive, with every courtesy due to his rank, though 
with every precaution to prevent his escape, was committed to the 
custody of Don Ferdinand Alarcon, a general of Spanish infantry, 
and conducted for safe keeping to the castle of Pizzichitons. Dis- 
patches announcing the event were instantly sent off to the emperor, 
and the courier received a passport from the hand of Francis him- 
self, in order to enable him to expedite his journey by a shorter route 
through France, so sanguine was the French monarch of instant 
liberation by Charles. 

But greatly did Francis err in thus judging of the nature of his rival 
by the generous impulses of his own. The warm sensibilities — the 
high and chivalric sentiments of the French monarch found no res- 
ponding chords in the celd heart of the Castilian. So vigorous, 
therefore, were the conditions imposed upon the liberation of the 
royal captive, and so unexpected were they to himself, that, when 
first proposed, he instantly grasped hrs dagger and exclaimed, in a 
paroxysm of despair and indignation, “ Better that a king should die 
thus!” Alarcon, in great alarm, grasped his arm; but the king 
solemnly declared, that, sooner than strip himself of his possessions 
by conceding to such infamous propositions, he would die by his 
own hand in a Spanish prison. - 

So eager was Francis for an immediate and personal Uterv.ew’ 
with Charles, that he even furnished the galiies for his voyage to 
Spain, the emperor being too poor at that time to fit out a canroy ; 
and, in a few weeks, he found himself in the Alcazar at Madrid, 
still under the jealous guardianship cf the ever-vigilant AlarcoH. 

The unfortunate monarch of Frinee soon became convinced that 
he had little to hope from the generosity of his rival. Weeks passed 
away, and his incessant and importunate solicitations for an inter- 
view were received with silent disregard. It was now plain, that 
Charles des : gned availing himself of the good fortune which the 
victory of Pavia had thrown into his hands, to the utmost extent, 
and, by all the rigor of the most severe captivity, to exact from his 
prisoner the last farthing of the largest ransom he could obtain. 

The scene of the imprisonment of Francis was a dreary old castle, 
and his jailer an austere old Don of Castile ; while the only exer- 
cise permitted, to one whose life had been action, was an occa- 
sional ride upon a lazy mule, surrounded by a guard of heavy-armed 
cavalry. 

It is, perhaps, impossible for any one fully to appreciate the feel- 
ings of the unhappy nrexarch during his captivity. The mortifica- 
tion ; the anguish ; the suspense ; the disappointment ; the despair of 
a nature like that of Francis, under a reverse of fortune so severe, 
must have been indescribably tormenting. And, if we may be per- 
mitted to regard any amount of mere temporal suffering as adequate 
retribution for temporal crimes; even those cf Francis the First, 
dark as had been their dye, may, perhaps, be viewed as amply 
recompensed by the wretchedness endured during that dreary im- 
prisonment in the old castle of Madrid. 

Now is it wonderful, that mental misery so intense should hn*ve 
s'-'on begun its ravages on the bodily health of its victim ! The con- 
dition of the unhappy young man is described as most pitiful. His- 
gay spirits forsook him : he became moody and silent, though never 
sullen : his love of books and amusements ceased ; and, at length, he 
was thrown upon his couch by a fever so violent, that his life was 
despaired of. In the delirium attendant on his disease, he moaned 
his captivity in the most piteous terms ; and expressed his longings for 
freedom and a return to his own beautiful France, with a pathos and 
an anguish of feeling which cut even his rcugh jailers to the heart. 
It soon became evident to his medical attendants, that the poor cap- 
tive would certainly die, unless he were visited by the emperor, and 
some hope of liberation held out to him. Charles, therefore, fearful 
of an event which would deprive him of vast advantages, and a 
magnificent ransom, hastened to the prison of the unhappy mcaarch, 
and, in an interview, brief, because of the feebleness of Francis, 
assured him of “speedy deliverance and princely treatment.” 


Of Valois. 


THE NEW WORLD 


29 


From that moment, the poor captive began to mend, and was soon 
in the enjoyment of his wonted health. 

Bat his hopes were vain. Charles was by nature perfidious ; and, 
■while the captivity of Francis continued as rigorous and as hopeless 
as ever, the distinguished reception by the emperor of the traitor 
Taourbon at Madrid, placed another rankling thorn bensath his 
pillow. 

All confidence between the two monarchs seemed now at an end, 
and the prospect of the liberation ef the royal captive, every day 
more distant. In vain did Margaret, the Duchess of Alencon, who 
was permitted to visit her brother, intercede in his behalf. In vain 
did Henry the Eighth insist on his immediate release. In despair, 
Francis resolved ts abdicate his throne in favor of his son ; and the 
deed to that end was signed, and sealed, and delivered by him to 
his sister, to be taken to France, and there registered ; while to 
Charles he declared his fixed determination to remain a captive for 
life, and desired that his prison should be named, and suitable ar- 
rangements for his comfort for the remainder of his days be made. 

Startled by this resolution, and apprehensive, from the recent 
escape from his prisoa of the king of Navarre, that Francis might, 
by possibility, be assisted to accomplish the same, Charles became 
more reasonable in his demands; and the French king learning that 
a powerful confederacy was forming against his rival in Italy, 
became more compliant, in hope of soon regaining, at the head of 
an army, all that he was now compelled to relinquish. 

A treaty was accordingly signed, by which he yielded the duchy of 
Furgundy, the sovereignty of Flanders and Artois, all claims to 
Milan, N?.ples, Genoa, and Asti ; promising never again to interfere 
■with Navarre in behalf of Henry d’Albret, and to pay a ransom of 
2,000,000 crowns. 

He also promised to restore the traitor Bourbon all his goods con- 
fiscated, with damages for their detention; to maintain a league 
offensive and defensive with Charles ; to marry his sister Eleonora, 
the queen-dowager of Portugal — Claude some years before having 
died— and, for the fulfillment of these conditions, to deliver as host- 
ages his t .vo youngest sons. 

A few hours before signing these several articles, Francis called 
together all those on whom he could depend in Madrid ; and having 
exacted an oath of secrecy, disclosed to them the contents of the 
treaty, the arts and violence used to obtain his signature ; and, in a 
solemn protest, he declared it void and of no effect ! 

The bridal ceremony between Francis and Eleonora of Portugal, 
was immediately solemnized; but its consummation was not suffered 
by Charles until the arrival of the regent’s ratification from Paris. 
Francis was then permitted to set out for the frontier of his dominions, 
escorted, by a troop of cavalry und*r Alarcon, who became more 
"lasudro'is than ever in his vigilance, as the hour for his captive’s 
emancipation drew nigh. The description of the scene which 
ensued, is so beautifully given by the historian to whom we are 
chiefly indebted for the events in the career of Francis which we 
have condensed, that we shall be pardoned for its quotation here : j 

“When they arrived at the river Andaye, which separates the, 
two kingdoms, Lautrec appeared on the opposite bank with a guard 
of horse equal in number to Alarcon’s. An emptj bark was moored 
in the middle of the stream ; the attendants drew up in order on the 
opposite banks ; at the same instant, Lannoy with eight gentlemen 
put off from the Spanish, and Lautrec with the same number from) 
the French, side of the river ; the former had the king in his boat; 
the latter the dauphin and duke of Orleans ; they met in the empty , 
vessel ; the exchange was made in a moment : Francis, after a short 
embrace of his children, leaped into Lautrech, boat, and reached the 
French shore. He mounted at that instant a Turkish horse, waved j 
his hand over hi3 head, and with a joyful voice crying aloud several 
times, ‘ I am yet a king ! ’ galloped full speed to St. John de Luz, j 
and from thence to Bayonne. This event, no les3 impatiently 
desired by the French nation than by their monarch, happened on 
the eighteenth of March, a year and twenty-two days after the fatal 
battle of Pavia.” 

The first act of Francis on reaching Bayonne, was t® write Henry 
of England a warm acknowledgment for the zeal manifested in 
Jii3 behalf, to which he attributed the regaining of his freedom. He 
then setout on his journey for the capita’. His route conducted him 
through the centre of his dominions, from one extremity to the other, 
and was little less than an uninterrupted triumphal procession. A’ 
every city, and town, and village, and hamlet, the entire population 
poured out to welcome his return, with all those enthusiastic demon 
stations of feeling for which that excited people are distinguished. 
The incidents of that journey would fully substantiate, were all other 
proof wanting, that, whatever the misery brought upon his subjects 
by his unbridled lust and his unprincipled ambition, never was there 
a prince upon the throne of France more ardently laved and uni- 
versally admired, than was Francis of Valois. 

CHAPTER XVIII the apparition - . 

“ Oh Heaven, receive her back ! 

Through the wide earth tbe sorrowing dove i ath dawn. 

Ana fauna no haven; weary though her wing 1 . 

And sullied with the dust of lengthened travel, 

Now let her flee away and be at rest ! 

The peace that man has broken— Thou restore j 

Whose holiest name is Father ! ” 

\ In a low voice— but never tone f 

\ thrilled through vein, and nerve, and bone. — Scott, 

\It was on the fourth day of the journey from Bayonne, that ihe [ 
Total cavalcade, as the sun was going down, drew nigh to the little 


village of Chinon. This place, so celebrated as the scene of some 
of the most melancholy events in the romance of history, is situated 
on the right bank of the Vienne, not far from the confluence ef that 
, stream with the Loire. Its site is a beautiful vale, sheltered by a 
range of precipitous crags in the rear and on the flank, while in front 
sweep on the sparkling waters of the Vienne. 

On the summit of the loftiest of these crags, we learn from an in- 
teresting writer, are still to be witnessed the ruins of that once form- 
idable fortress, which, for one thousand years, held all the surround- 
ing country in awe. 

The castle of Chinon i3 regarded as one of the strongest and most 
perfect of all the remains of Feudal Architecture. It is still remarka- 
, . ble for its solid masonry; and, like other structures of the age, is 
furnished with numberless secret passages and subterranean galleries, 
one of which is said to have extended from the royal chamber, down 
through the deep walls and through the crag on which the castle 
stands to the Vienne : the-nce, beneath the bed of the river, to the 
opposite bank, emerging in a tower of a convent of Carmelites within 
sight of Chinon ; thence, again, descending into the earth, it con- 
tinued its midnight course to the Chateau of Sanmur, twelve miles 
distant. 

History speaks, too, of the terrible “ Oubliettes ” of this fearful pile, 
which are yet to be traced out immediately behind the fireplace of 
the principal sitting room ; “so that the haughty prince might be 
stretching his legs over the fire, with the utmost nonchalence , at the 
; moment the wretch who had offended him, might be precipitated, at 
1 1 at his very side, into this horrid grave ! Alas !” continued the writer 
from whom we quote; “Alas! that history should have recorded 
this to have been actually the case with that mirror of chivalrous, 
honor, Francis the First, in company with ene cf his mistresses !” 

Fain are we to hope, that this terrible charge partakes more of 
the romance than the reality of history ; yet, as Chinon was a favor- 
« ite spot with Francis, its truth is by no means impossible. 

It was entering this b autiful village, at the quiet hour of sunset, 
that we left cur hero some pages back — defiling through the narrow 
and lane-like streets of the hamlet, the certege swept off from the 
river to the left, and winding up the rugged ascent to the castle, dis- 
appeared within its walls At that moment, the white standard of 
France rolled out its heavy folds from the summit of the loftiest 
tower, silvered by the last rays of the sinking sun, and the n»te of 
J the melancholy bugle from the battlements, as it rose and fell on the 
evening breeze, told to all the surrounding county for many miles, 
that Francis of Valois was once more at Chinon. 

As the darkness closed in, lights flashed from every loop-hole of 
that stern old fortiiaee, perched up on its lonely height among the 
clouds — strains of wild music and bursts of merriment could be heard 
mingling in the distance; and the mid hour of the night had long; 
passed, when the last shout of the reveller fell on the ear, and the 
last lamp ceased to glimmer from the casement. 

Wearied by the fatigues of a long and rapid day’s ride, and the 
revels of the night, in which he had mingled with something of that 
light-hearted joviality, which had characterized him, when first pre- 
sented to the reader — Francis threw himself upon his couch so soon 
as he reached his turret-chamber, and in a few minutes was buried 
in a slumber deep and profound. 

Bat this slumber was not to continue. His breathing shortly 
1 became less free and regular, and at length with a sudden start, as 
of alarm, he awoke. His heart was throbbing rapidly and with a 
j sensation cf suffocation. A chilling pang shot through his brain, as 
if an icy hand had been resting upon his forehead. The castle-clock 
tolled sullenly forth the third hour of the morning, and chateau and 
! convent, for miles around, gave forth, mellowed by distance, on 
I the stillness, their iron response. With a slight shudder he opened 
I his eyes. The moon, which had just risen, cast that pale and spec- 
j tral light into the apartment peculiar to her rays, when she is wan- 
ing from h?r full. Turning his head upon his pillow, lie glanced 
j .oward the deep oriel window on his right projecting boldly from the 
turret, and a vision met his eye, at which his cheek paled and his 
frame quivered. There — in the blue and ghastly moonlight, tran- 
quil and unmoving, stood the figure of a female ! Her garb was 
that of a sister of the order of Carmelite nuns, but her head was 
uncovered, and her daik and luxuriant hair wa3 thrown back in 
heavy tresses on her shoulders. The features ef the countenance 
were thus fully revealed. 

The apparition moved. The rays of the moon for an instant 
streamed brightly upon the face ; and — oh, God! who shali describe 
the sensations of the monarch, when there — turned full upon him, 
he recognized the pale, yet beautiful countenance of one, whom for 
long years he had mourned as dead ! The eyes of this apparition 
j were fastened steadfastly on his own, the features were calm and 
unmoving, the lips were slightly parted, and the hands were meekly 
j folded on .the breast. 

I With emotions of amazement, bordering on terror, Francis raised 
l his head from his pillow and earnestly leaned forward. The figure 
I remained motionless, a3 at first; but while he gazed, its outlines 
[became more and more clearly defined, and its proportions grew 
more and more lamiliar to his remembrance. No — no — there co»kl 
1 be no mistaking ! That form, though robed in the full and flowing 
costume of a recluse, and though now, as contrasted with its once 
rounded and voluptuous proportions, attenuated almost to translu- 
cency — was still that graceful and elegant form so often folded with 
rapture to his own — that face, pallid as alabaster and traced with 


30 


THE NEW WORLD 


Francis 


many a line of suffering and of thought, was yet the same beautiful 
face which had once seemed fairer to him than all the world of 
faces beside — that pale brow bore the same open and innocenl 
expression as ever before ; but time's dusky wing in its onward 
sweeping, had for an instant lingered there as it passed, and had left 
a seal of meditation which in girlhood-days it had never known — 
the eye, ah! that was indeed the same — that was indeed unchanged! 
There was the same deep, fond, melancholy gaze, the same look of 
melting and unutterable tenderness, as were before to him ! The 
lips — they smiled — yes, there was the same bland, yet radiant smile, 
which to hirv had been the sunlight of a brief, bright vision of his 
earlier years — those soft lips moved — 

“Francis ! ” 

The tones* were faint, like th? far-cff moan of half-remembered 
music; but they were her’s; and, oh! how ravishing!) 7 sweet did 
tn°v fall upon his ear ! 

Powerless to move or to speak, the monarch gazed on with dilat 
ing eye and quivering pulse, uncertain whether he looked upon a 
spirit from another world, or a reality of the present. And yet the 
superstition of the age, from which he was far from free, caused the 
former impression to predominate 

i Again those pale lips moved, and again the name of “Francis” 
floated faintly to his ear. 

“ Blanche ! my own Blanche ! ” he cried. 

An expression of more than human happiness passed over that 
pure and spirit-like face. 

“Answer me, beloved!” again he exclaimed. “If it be thou, 
oh, speak, to me ! Do not leave me ! This world without thee has 
been but a lonely dwelling-place. Come to me, Blanche — to my 
heart — once more to thine home ! ” 

With these words, Francis earnestly extended his arms. 

A smile of rapture played over the soft lips and the pale cheek of 
the apparition, like a gleam of sunlight on a quiet lake ; and those 
large and luminous eyes for an instant beamed with supernatural 
brightness. It passed away — a shade of mingled solemnity and sor- 
row gathered upon the countenance — the arm wa3 slowly raised 
from the bosom, and the finger directed to heaven. 

“ Hereafter ! hereafter ! We meet no more on earth ! ” 

As these syllables fell on the listener’s ear, a cloud passed over the 
moon — the apartment for a moment wa3 darkened — again the wan 
moonbeams poured in floods through the oriel — the apparition was 
-gone ! and on the air floated faintly away, as if dying in distance, 
mournfully and melodiously as the strain of an JEolian harp — 

“Farewell! farewell! farewell!” 

The king spoke not — moved not! His eyes closed — breathlessly 
he listened ; and when the la3t, soft accent died sadly away, a sense 
of utter and unutterable loneliness came over him — his head sank 
back on the pillow, and tears — tears the first which far seven weary 
years had fallen frem his eyelids, gushed forth like a flood ! 

At length the paroxysm ceased — his grief became less passionate — 
quietly he arose, and, walking to the oriel, looked forth on the tran- 
quil scene without. 

The night was calm — the sky was serene and clear, save a few 
fleecy clouds which floated near the zenith — the hosts of heaven were 


ing his head on his pillow. In fine, not a trace was to be seen in- 
dicative of the exciting events, or of his unlooked-for visitant, of the 
preceding night. 

Mounting to the battlements of the turret by a winding stair in the 
massive masonry — a turret distinguished as the Tour d' Argenton, 
and devoted to the king himself— -Francis looked forth on the mag- 
nificent landscape spread out like a panoramic picture before his eye. 
All was Beautiful and calm. Far away to the right, winding among 
the tremendous crags which butted over its glassy surface, swept up 
in redundant tide the gentle Vienne, eddying along at the base of the 
steep on which the castle was founded. Far away in blue distance 
on the left might be caught the green banks of the Loire — the proud 
promontory of Landes reflected in its waters, and the stern old cita- 
del of Sanmur frowning darkly down on the bright little' hamlet at 
its base. An immense extent of hill and vale, of plain and meadow, 
of field and forest, was unfolded to the eye on every side. In front, 
beyond the rippling river, rose peacefully among the hills the pale 
turrets of the Carmelite coavent — half castle, halt monastery, as was 
the custom of the feudal time — partially shrouded in the mist- wreatias 
of night, which yet floated around their summits. 

On all this tranquil and beautiful scene, lighted up by the glad sun- 
shine of morning, Francis gazed long and earnestly, and with a 
i thoughtful eye : then turning silently and abstraeted'y away, he de- 
scended into the castle to issae orders for the journey. 

It was late on the inornmg of that day, that the cavalcade of the 
previous night was seen detiiing from the dusky portals of Chinee, 
winding down the stony and precipitous descent to resume its route 
to the capital. 

To all the inquiries set on foot by Francis — and they had been nu- 
merous and scrutinizing — nothing more satisfactory could be gained 
in reply from the simple villagers than this — that, some six or seven 
years before, an old man and a girl, answering in description to the 
jester and his daughter, had suddenly appeared in the hamlet — with 
some of the peasantry of which, and the neighboring localities on 
either bank of the Vienne, the old man had seemed familiar — and 
then, after a secluded residence of several months, they had as sud- 
denly and mysteriously disappeared as they came. Whether the 
old man had, at length, sunk under his many infirmities ; and whether 
! the neighboring convent had sheltered within its protecting walls the 
orphan girl, under the assumed name of some one of the legion cf 
the sisterhood of the Catholic saints, n« one was able, or was willing, 
to tell ; and so, despairing of a happy issue to further investigations, 
even should a faint hope which had risen in his mind prove not wild 
and chimerical, Francis at length, after several hours of delay, issued 
the necessary order for the cortege to advance. 

Abstracted and thoughtful, the monarch rode silently ird sadiv on 
all that day, and all the next day, and the next, at the beau of hit 
troop. And, as he pondered, he felt that, whether his mysterious 
visitant of the previous night were an apparition from the living or 
front the departed — whether she were one dsad to the world by se- 
clusion from its scenes, or by a final departure from the earth — he 
had looked for the last time, with human eyes, on the sweet face o! 
his long lamented and much loved Blanche. Had she yielded up th« 
remnant of her days to the service of her God, then he shuddered at 


all out in their magnificence, and old Orion was riding up the firma- 1 the thought of the sacrilege of that impure passion, which would teat 

W \ O V? f II) 1 J .1 in I 1 . — 1 lit.-, M A r P h A M . - — ... a n .a A M M AA-1 l . n H 1 _ _ f _ I T ' 1 I . J - L A 1 A . .... . A t 1 a I t A M ♦ A. i * l, JA L 1 AM* 1 U* a 


ment with wintry brilliancy. The waning moon was nearly half 
way to its meridian, and poured forth its beams purely and palely 
upon the earth. Beneath, all was quiet ; the river — the forests — the 
little peaceful hamlet — allseemedso still as if slumbering in the cold 
moonlight; and, as the king looked down on them from the high 
turret-window of that stern old tower, he alone, of all the world, in- 
animate or animate, appeared to wake p.nd to watch. 

He was turning away from thi3 quiet scene, when his glance fell 
for an instant on the old Carmelite convent on the opposite bank of 
the Vienne. A single light, like a star, beamed steadily out from its 
loftiest tower. 

The king threw himself once more on his couch ; and, exhausted 
by the scenes of the night, was soon buried in slumber. 

The merry sunshine of a spring morning was streaming richly into 
his apartment when he awoke. The birds were at their matin3 — the 


her from His altar ; had she become a habitant of the blest spirit- 
land, as he seemed most inclined to believe, then she would nevei 
indeed come back to him, though, by a life of penitence, he might 
hope to go to her. And, as be rode thus thoughtfully end silently on— 
not a little to the wonder cf his attendants — and pondered again anc 
again on all the scene* of the preceding night, and called up the death- 
less affection of that last fond gaze, and thought of those last parting 
syllables which floated to his ear, a calm serenity stole over his ?gt- 
tated spirit; xnd it was with humble restgnation and penitent joy he 
at length exclaimed — 

“ Hereafter ! hereafter ! JVe meet no more on the earth ! But, oh, 
we shall meet again, my Blanche ! we shall meet again in a world 
where nought of earth’s evil can trouble— w here sin, and sorrow, 
and suffering are known no more forever — where the wronged and 
the weary cues do rest!” 

And Francis of Valois went on his way with a humbled, yet con- 
fident heart. And, in after years, when cloud alter cloud had gath- 


bleating of flocks, the lowing of kine, the fitful song of the shep- 
herd boy going forth to his daily task, rose in a full chorus of pasto- 
ral sounds from the little village ; and the neighing of steeds, the ered over bis pathway, and tempest on tempest had burst on nis ce- 
rattling armor and caparisons, and the confused and heterogenous voted head, until he seemed the doemed victim cf misfortune, he 
sounds in the courts of the castle itself, betokened that the revellers I thought upon Blanche ; and, though he knew not all the suffering 
of the preceding night were thoroughly roused from their slumbers, which his wild love had caused that fair and innocent girl, he felt 
and were making preparations to resume their route. that Heaven's retribution was just, and he was silent, and murmured 

Francis opened his eyes, and, with a mingled feeling of antioipa, J not at his fate * , __ . 

tion and apprehension, carefully surveyed his apartment. Everything'' * On one occasion, when Charles, with a victorious army, was within two 
corftinued as he remembered to have observed it on his retiring to • days’ much »f Paris, we are told by Brantome, that Francis, in a moment 
est. His garments lay as he had thrown them off; his sword and | If 2 h * ”&d £ Sly!’' The next moment 

Idded — “ Yet, Thy will be done ! ’’ — and at once 


belt remained near the couch where they had been placed, end be- | w ^ ich 1 lil °ught thou hadstj 


side them the massive goblet of silver, from which, agreeably to the 
custom of the age and nation, he had drained his posset before lay- 


proceeded, with all that coolness and presence ot mind for which lie was so 
distinguished, to issue the necessary orders for the defence of his capita . j&| 


TIIE END, 


































I 


























I 












































I 






















































































































































































































































































